


Religion of Our Own

by broomclosetkink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Omega Molly, Omega Verse, Physical Abuse, Underage Sex, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before a sterile morgue in the basement of St. Bart 's, before 221B and John Watson, there was an accidental meeting that irrevocably altered the shape of their destiny. They call it Bonding because obsession is too honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently omegaverse is my thing, who knew? Be warned, this is not your usual A/B/O fic and it's rather a departure from ASA, which is porn and not story driven. This fic will contain several triggering aspects, each chapter will have trigger warnings for the content inside, as I don't want to hurt anyone. An overview of most triggers are: child abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, negligence, substance abuse, underage sex, and buckets of angst. Survivors of abusive homes be warned, this is very triggering. The more I write the more I realize this is isn't just Sherlolly fix, this is my therapy as a survivor. I strongly caution those who are easily triggered not to read this, or to have a friend pretend and warn you of what happens. I'm not playing: this fix is going truly ugly places. Don't allow a key to harm you.
> 
> If anyone reading this is in any type of abusive lifestyle or situation, please know there is always a way out even if you can't see it. I will personally help anyway I can, all you have to do is reach out. I love you. You're stronger thann you think. This is your sign...please take it, from one survivor to another, you ARE strong enough to survive leaving.
> 
> All my thanks to MizJoely for betaing, friendship, encouragement, support, ukuleles, and never failing to brighten my day. She's an angel!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any associated characters nor am I affiliated with the writers, actors, or producers of BBC Sherlock; all original characters and the writing its self are my intellectual property. In short, none of the good shit is mine.

She's just a girl in the crowd: rather small, average features, her uniform tie a bit crooked. It's an accident, mere haappenstance that he catches a faint whiff of soul searing scent over the overwhelming mingling of people and perfume and rubbish bins and food and everything else. But he does, by some incredible miracle or cruelty, and as every tiny microscopic particle of his being condenses and narrows down the world at large becomes so meaningless to have almost vanished. This is the moment an obsession is born.

The girl hasn't noticed him yet. She's younger than he is, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen, maybe younger. Normally he's good at ages, but she's got a face that lends it's self to agelessness. She's got teenage sharp awkwardness and plump baby cheeks, but woman round breasts and hips that flare out the fabric of her skirt. Turning on his heel, so suddenly that someone bumps into him and curses, he trails after the little knot of school girls at the back of a larger group. Her hair looks like cinnamon colored silk; his fingers begin to ache. Her skin is creamy, with healthy roses on her cheeks and soft, faint freckles; his erection is immediate and throbbing. There's an odd note to her scent, which says that while she's obviously, painfully Omega, she hasn't had her first heat; something feral, cruel and pleased floods through him like molten lava exploding from the earth's core.

Body language is something he reads incredible well, and he can see the moment she becomes aware of him. First it is a footstep she misses, then it is tense muscles and a rigid back. Her head lifts high, higher, spine ramrod straight as she takes in big lungfuls of air. Much more sensitive than a mundane human's already, her senses are not as keen as they will become once her first heat falls on her. It's the only reason it takes so long for her to puzzle out what she's smelling, the scent of male and Alpha and lust.

The girls she's with, utterly insignificant to him and utterly below her, they're so caught up in giggling conversation they don't notice when she falls behind. They don't see her pause, sniff the air and begin to trail after his scent like an untrained hound on its first hunt. He moves away from her, slowly, slowly, leading her away from her fellow students, from the crowd, from the busy sidewalk guiding them towards the large museum. Relentlessly she follows, tracking him all the way into a gray alley filled with rubbish bins and dirty puddles. He's standing there, waiting, when she rounds the corner. Her nose twitches as she sniffs, and her eyes are big and round as they finally set their gaze on him.

Anxiety comes on in a blazing rush. What does she see? He's painfully thin and gangly, with too long limbs and an unfinished quality to him; his cheekbones are odd and sharp, his eyes weird, his mouth too large, his bloody hair a wild mess of curls… heart lurching painfully in his chest, Sherlock Holmes aches, fiercely, to be in someone else's skin. (It's not the first time, nor the last, but it is perhaps the most poignant of his young life.)

"Oh," this lovely girl breathes, and he can see that her eyes are brown and her nose is tipped up. Thinking about kissing it (her nose, her mouth, her anything), it makes shame stab through Sherlock, because he's supposed to be better than this, isn't he? Mycroft's probably never done this, scented some girl and led her somewhere quiet and lonely because he's got a mad idea about kissing her until neither of them can breathe. Like she'd want to kiss a freak, he can't help but chide himself in the privacy of his whirling, anxious mind.

She looks him up and down and Sherlock hates himself for the helpless thought that rushes through him – that with the sunlight slanting over the top of a building and lazily drifting down, she's lit up like an angel and suddenly religion is a whole lot more appealing than it was before. He turns his previous self-loathing onto his nervousness of her unknown thoughts towards his appearance, because there's no way she's as enthralled with him as he is with her. Average was his first thought to describe her, but that's so wrong; she's dainty, luminous, and heart wrenchingly beautiful.

Sherlock has never felt like this before, not once in his life, and he's as scared as he is hungry.

"Hi," she says thinly. Never able to stop himself from noticing the little things, Sherlock sees her hands tremble and a flush build up her neck and spread to her jaw and cheeks. It makes him hopeful and brash.

"Hello," he responds. Deductions clog up his throat and keep him blessedly silent, for now at least. She's an only child, her parents are having problems, she has two cats and a small dog, she's new to wearing contacts, and at the side of her neck Sherlock can see her pulse pulsing under thin skin. It makes his stomach knot and twist.

"You led me here." This is a statement. Her pulse jumps harder, faster than before. Sherlock wonders what it would feel like to hold it between his teeth, and his knees nearly knock together. "Why?" She's nervous, but not fearful. Keenly interested is his impression, and his impressions are (almost) always right.

"Because you smell like – like –" Sherlock flounders at the end of a thought he hadn't meant to speak aloud.

She takes a step forward. Another, then another, and a final one; her shoes are cheap, scuffed, and in need of replacing. Her calves are thin but round. For some reason this makes his insides quiver. "Because I smell like… what?" she prompts, and now she's within arms reach. The breeze gusts, rattling the lid of a rubbish bin, and he's nearly knocked over by this new flood of her scent.

"Mine," he rasps, overwhelmed a primal instinct he doesn't really understand and a boy's uncertainty. "You smell like you're mine."

Her narrow mouth quirks, shyly pleased, and her long fingered hands fold together in front of her body. Sherlock thinks it looks like she's holding herself back from something, maybe from reaching out to him, and his heartbeat is a drum solo in his ears. "I do?"

He nods, and is promptly blinded by her smile.

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he gives her, wishes it was something not so strange, that it was an ordinary name for an ordinary boy.

Her smile grows, and there's a dimple beside her mouth. "Sherlock," she says, as though seeing how it fits in her mouth, tastes on her tongue. "Sherlock… I like that, Sherlock. It suits you."

If she were lying he could tell. He's excellent at spotting liars. But she's honest, bare and open, and Sherlock thinks she's probably always this artless and it makes him even more aroused, which isn't quite as shameful as it was before. "What's your name?" he asks, because he has to know. He has to have something to put with this face, this scent, this mix of feelings taking him over.

"Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Molly Hooper." There's reverence in his tone, and Sherlock knows, right down to the marrow of his bones, that this is a name that will forever be holy and sacred in his world. Let the others have their false religions and all-seeing, all knowing gods; he has Molly Hooper, who is all the savior he's ever going to need. Already his mind palace is building her a room, but he thinks one won't be enough. She'll need more. She'll need a space in every room and dusty corner, a benevolent girl to watch over his most precious gift: his mind. "I like yours, too, Molly."

Their slightly awkward, wholly elated grins are matched set. "Do you… want to go somewhere and talk?" his heart beats a hopeful tattoo against his ribs.

For the first time, Molly looks over her shoulder and bites at her bottom lip. It scares him, makes panic flood his blood as he thinks of her leaving. "I'm not supposed to leave my class…" she hedges, finally looking back to him. Sherlock finds he doesn't it like it when she looks elsewhere, not at all.

"Boring," he firmly pronounces. "Not worth your time. And you already have, which makes it a weak refusal at best. Do you like Chinese? I know a really great place, best spring rolls you've ever tasted. The owner likes me; I proved him innocent of his sister's murder."

Bafflement paints it's self across her face… and intrigue. "What?" she questions, eyes gone bright and Sherlock feels interesting and brilliant and mad, but in the best possible way.

"I like puzzles, and it was one… sort of. Didn't take too long, really, was practically painted in neon letters across the wall that it was the boyfriend. Don't trust the police, Molly, they're incredibly incompetent. Well meaning, I suppose, but blind. I'm surprised they continue to find their way to and from their homes day after day."

"You… you solve crimes?" Her brow is furrowed, but there's a smile at her mouth. She's leaning forward, towards Sherlock, and he can feel the warmth of her body.

"Sometimes, when I can get away from parents and obnoxious older brother; he's infuriating, as you'll no doubt discover."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen and you go around solving crimes because the police are too stupid for you?"

He shrugs. "I'm brilliant. I'm halfway through university, with degrees in chemistry and criminal psychology. Dreadfully boring, wouldn't bother attending – I learn much easier on my own, classrooms are a waste of my time."

"Then why do you bother?" She's leaning into him, as though pulled into orbit by his fast words and brilliant mind. It takes a good deal of effort to keep a grin from spilling across his mouth.

"I promised my mum. Chinese?" One step and they're inside the bubble of each other's personal space, a zone he's never before cared to have breached. But Molly smells like crisp apples and female and something he's never ever going to able to identify, no matter how hard he tries. It's Molly Hooper and it's his and there are no variables to this equation. This is the result of millions of years of evolution, refined until an Alpha can find his most perfect biological mate by scent, even outside her estrous cycle. This is primal and base and nothing Sherlock's ever wanted, but now his world has narrowed in focus, just as it has for other Alphas over billions of years.

Watching her expression fall, her eyes drift to the side and away from him, it makes Sherlock edgy. "I really need to get back to my group before they think I've been kidnapped. But I – we – can we see each other later?"

"Yes!" Snagging this offer before the words are entirely out of her mouth, Sherlock finds it's difficult to be embarrassed when he's so incredibly grateful she's not trying to completely walk away.

"I'll give you my number. Um, do you have paper or –"

"Don't need it." The truth this may be, but he's also showing off, just a bit. He hopes she's impressed. "I'll remember it."

Molly's smile is sweet and charmed, brown eyes lighting up. "You're sure?"

He begins to recite pi, and Molly joins in, flashing that dimple beside her mouth. Sherlock is suddenly a bit light headed.

"I like science and maths," she shares, quietly, like maybe she's expecting to be teased. "I adore chemistry. I've thought about going into molecular biology when I go to uni. I'm not sure yet, though, which field is best for me."

He wishes, rather desperately, that he had a book or something to hold in front of himself. In the words of his lesser fellows, that is fucking hot. "I have an eidetic memory," he shares, voice gone hoarse.

Bearing suddenly rosy cheeks, Molly's seems to have suddenly developed a respiratory problem. "I read Basic Pathology for fun." She pauses, hands balling into tight, white knuckled fists. "Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I – can I kiss you?" she blurts in a thick rush, while his mind develops a hot, white static that blocks out the usual rush and buzz of his mighty brain. He thinks he makes a noise, but then again, maybe that's just the sound of his blood and lungs in his own ears. And maybe he nods, but he can't be sure because he's mostly focused on not tripping over his own feet. Molly meets him in the middle, crashes against him and stands on her toes, curls her arms around his neck and squeaks when their teeth clash together. It's a good sound, Sherlock decides, and then he can't think about good or bad or finesse because he's never actually done this before and he doesn't want to muck it up, but she's hanging onto him and making these tiny little puffing noises into his mouth, and he thinks that's probably a good thing – God, he hopes it's a good thing – then he knows it's a good thing because she smells like musky sex and it feels as though someone hits the reset button his brain. It's shutting down, rebooting, while they're stumbling blindly, trying to resist the urge to topple to the ground and rut like beasts.

The fabric of her jumper is warm from her body heat, worn soft from dozens and dozens of washings, and Sherlock vaguely appreciates how it feels against his palms. Mostly in how it's connected to rucking it up enough to find her blouse, which he pulls from the waistband of her skirt and finally, fucking finally, he finds skin. She's soft, like silk, and supple, and she gasps and then moans when he palms the small of her back.

"Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper, what the hell do you think you're doing!?" It's like someone turned a garden hose on and began dousing them. Sherlock's got his teeth bared and two hands fists in Molly's clothes, ready to come to blows whomever the fuck is interrupting the best moment of his entire life. There's a sturdy looking boy at the mouth of the alley, ruddy with shock and outrage, hammy fists balled tight at his side. Sherlock immediately loathes him.

"Oh my God, Pat, seriously!?" Craning to look over her shoulder, Molly hisses like a feral cat when she sees the newcomer. Then she presses her face against Sherlock's narrow chest, hiding there as she tangles her fingers up in his hair and whispers, "God, no, you smell too good; I'm not ready to leave yet."

"You don't have to," he answers, burying his nose in her hair. Not that he stops glaring at Pat. No, he needs to make it clear that Molly is his, now, and that won't be changing… ever.

"Get your mouth off my cousin, perv!" Stomping forward, Pat grabs Molly and tries to yank her away. It's a terrible mistake; no one should not to do this to a young Alpha that's just found his mate, as it's rather like finding a napping bear and prodding it with something sharp and pointy. Sherlock sees red and snarls, and immediately after Molly yanks her arm free he twists, pushing her to his side and behind him. He can read this boy's movements as though he's announcing what he plans to do beforehand, and it's so easy to block his punch as it comes. Sherlock knots a hand in his shirt, balls up the other and jabs – quick, short and hard – and blood sprays. Now a thumb to the throat, there, yes, and Pat is gasping for air and turning mottled red and purple before he hits the ground.

When he looks back, Molly is watching him with huge eyes, pupils so dilated they appear black. Her mouth is open and her breathing comes in soft, quick pants. "That was so hot," she whispers, and every hair on Sherlock's body tries to stand to attention at the same time.

"I study martial arts. And I box." He wants to kiss her again. Yes, and then pushing her against the wall and drag up her shirt and find her breasts, those soft little mounds he felt against his chest. First he'll see how they fit in his palms – perfect, he's sure of it – then he'll learn how to make her squirm with his fingers, then his mouth, yes his mouth; he'll suck little pink nipples in his mouth, and Molly will moan, and he'll run a hand up her thigh and to find the crotch of white cotton knickers – because he's suddenly certain they're white cotton, innocent and sweet and very Molly – and then –

Ravenous, Sherlock is mere seconds from falling back upon her when Pat pops up with a hacking cough.

"Molls!" he breathlessly implores, and the desperation in his voice pushes common sense back on them both. Blinking at each other, curling their fingers into palms and shuffling a bit further apart, it becomes a battle of wills against instinct and nature.

"I've got to go back." There are tears in her eyes, and it sets his teeth on edge. It's not right, his Molly crying. She rattles off a series of numbers, and it takes Sherlock a moment before he realizes he's been given her phone number. "Call me tonight. Please?"

"Yes," he vows, backing away to keep himself from pulling her close and running away. He's got an emergency credit card in his wallet, and they could get a hotel room. One with a big, soft bed with softer sheets, where Molly could lie down and he could explore her like a culture under his microscope.

Letting her walk away is the most difficult thing he's ever forced himself to do.

-X-

"Saints be merciful, Helen, what did you expect? She's an Omega."

"She's not even had her first heat, Ned!"

"It doesn't change what she is."

"That boy attacked her and then attacked Patrick! Look at your nephew! He's got a broken nose, his eyes are blacked –"

"He's got eleven brothers and sisters; he's had worse."

"Stay the hell out of this, Steve. Molly's mine and Ned's daughter, which means this conversation is ours to have."

"She's found an Alpha, Helen; this isn't the end of the world. It's a good thing. Hell, we should be celebrating! Do you know how long some people wait, or never find their Bondmate?"

"The hell is that supposed to mean? You just stand there, Ned, stand there and let your brother and the rest of your family talk about me because I'm not a bloody Omega, because I'm a normal person –"

"You trying to say we're not normal?"

"That's not what she said, Steve –"

"Sure as hell was what I said!"

"Are you calling our daughter abnormal?"

"Because of your freak genes that you still can't forgive me for not having!"

Pat takes Molly by the hand, tugging her away. Their parents are too buys shouting abuse to notice the subject of the fight slipping away. They go to kitchen, all the way at the back of the house, and shut the door. Through the walls and doors they can still hear their family fighting, though it's more muffled and less overwhelming. Tears burn Molly's eyes and clog her throat but she keeps swallowing and blinking, refusing to let them fall.

"I'm sorry I fought with your Alpha." Pat's words are quiet and unexpected. Nervously, without looking up, he fiddles with a vase of fake flowers on the kitchen island. "I just… I dunno, Molls, I thought he was hurting you. By the time I figured out what was going on it was too late, but then I thought, 'they're gonna do it right here and Uncle Ned'll kill me.' I never should have told Dad, though."

"S'not your fault, Patty, okay? Uncle Stevie's not the problem here… Dad isn't neither, though I know he can't be comfortable with thinking about me – what Sherlock and I –" Why was she born with fair skin? Her blushes, which are all too frequent, be they from anger or nervousness or embarrassment, stand out vividly with her pale coloring and reddish hair. This one is so fierce it actually hurts, sweeping to life with such a force she begins to sweat. Once cool and comfortable, the kitchen now seems stifling and overheated.

"Aunt Helen's a bitch."

"Patty –"

Brown eyes, close to bright shade of Molly's own, give her a long stare. "You know it's true. She's a bitch and she takes it out on you when she shouldn't. I wish they'd get divorced."

"Mum doesn't believe in divorce," Molly whispers, unwilling to dwell on how much she wishes it would happen. It's not that she doesn't love her mum – she does – but if it were just her and Dad and the rest of the family, things would be wonderful. Visits with Mum would be okay, and would end hopefully before Helen Hooper's infamous temper flared.

"The Pope would make an exception for those two."

Sitting side-by-side on bar stools at the island, their shoulders and elbows bump comfortingly together. There's a lull in the shouting. Molly hopes the fight's ended, at least for now.

"I'm happy you found your Alpha. That's really awesome, Molls. Don't let them take it away from you, yeah? How happy he made you." It's impossible not to shed a few tears when Pat's being so damn sweet, curling an arm over her shoulders and kissing her forehead. They're a close lot, the Hooper kids, all those masses of cousins piled onto three street rows, but Molly knows she and Pat have something special. She's only twelve hours older than he is and each milestone in her life has been achieved with Pat at her side. Or him stumbling into the alley where she's snogging her new… boyfriend? Does that term even apply in this situation?

Her Alpha – that tastes better on her tongue. Sherlock… Alpha… Molly's. There, that's best. That fits better than anything else, and even as her mother's voice rises in a shrill shriek out of outrage across the house, Molly's heart races with excitement. She hopes he calls tonight, that he won't blow her off. What if he'd been wrong? What if he wants someone prettier? What if he forgot her number? Worst of all, what if he doesn't like how she threw herself on him… or thinks she's a freak, too? Knowing these fears aren't rational does nothing to suppress them.

"Do you think we're freaks?" Rubbing her thumb against the rough grout between the tiles, she doesn't dare look at Pat. As a Beta, he's got it slightly easier than an Alpha or Omega, but worse in others. Molly wouldn't trade with him for anything, if she's honest. A heat comes once in a while, but to switch from one or the other depending on the situation or partner? That sounds exhausting, even at a biological level.

"'Course not. I think Aunt Helen's a right jealous bitch, and anyone else out in the world that doesn't like what we are, well, they can go bugger themselves." Pat gives her a firm nod and a hair ruffle, and she can see that it's settled for him. He's always been like that; once he's decided on something, changing his mind is like attempting to wrestle an octopus. Great thinker he's not, but Pat Hooper likes being in his own skin and doesn't rightly care what anyone else says about it. She envies him this.

The phone rings. Excitement has her lunging off the bar stool but fear locks her muscles in place, resulting in Molly crashing to the floor.

Pat whoops with laughter, pointing in amazement as Klutz-zilla strikes again. "Forget how to walk?" he gasps out.

Popping upright and now glowing with embarrassment, Molly darts for the wall phone. Her hands are trembling quite badly. "Hello?" she answers breathlessly.

"Molly?" It's him. It's him, oh God, she'd know that voice anywhere. Crackly on the edges, like a lot of boys his age, but also rather deep and lovely.

"Yes, hi! It's – it's me. Hello." Collapsing against the wall, she presses her flaming face against the cool wallpaper. She sounds like an idiot, doesn't she? Oh God. Oh God. She's got to calm down, needs to breathe and not panic because panicking never helps anything.

"Hi." There's a smile in voice, lifting it up and making it warm like melting chocolate, smooth and silky. In the background is a woman's voice insisting, "Don't forget to invite her to dinner! Sherlock! Sherlock, are you listening to me?" and a man, "Hush, Maura; let him talk to the girl." It has to be his parents and Molly grins, imaging these two faceless people hovering over him as he calls her for the first time, as giddy with excitement as she is.

"You told your parents about me?" Though she's not quite sure why, the knowledge fills Molly with joy.

"Yes… is that okay?" There are the sounds of movement, loudly creaking floorboards, the shrill whine of hinges and the solid thump of a door shutting. Molly imagines Sherlock hiding in his room, away from his excited parents, and the grin on her face is wide and silly.

"What? Oh, yeah, of course! It's lovely, yeah, just lovely. I'm glad."

"It does seem logical, doesn't it, to inform ones family when you've encountered –" With a high crack of his still changing voice, whatever Sherlock was going to say cuts off. For a moment he simply breathes. "Haven't you told your parents?"

"Oh, um, yeah, I have. No reason not to, like you said."

A pause, and not to far away from Sherlock are discordant notes. Whatever instrument it is, it's not a guitar; that Molly can rule out for sure. Is Sherlock a musician? He certainly has the hands for it. "From your tone of voice, I'm assuming they weren't pleased."

"Oh no, that's not – Dad's thrilled, actually, so's Uncle Stevie, Pat's dad – it's just my mum, but she…she'll come around." There's a particular quality Molly's voice takes on when discussing her mother, or at least, the things that Helen Hooper will 'come around' to (a long list, to be sure): it's small and choked, a bit scared and very apologetic. Pat says it makes her sound like a kicked puppy.

"You sound… upset."

"No – well, I mean yes, but – but it's nothing. Mum's just Mum, but she'll come around eventually, like I said."

Before Sherlock can respond, the kitchen door bangs open. Helen stands in the doorway just a moment, soft blonde hair catching the late afternoon sunlight through the windows before she demands, "Is that him?" with flaring nostrils and bulging veins in her forehead, neck, and hands. Molly immediately shrinks in on herself, backing away.

"M-mum, um, please d-don't –" Molly clings to the receiver when her mother tries to yank it from her hands. Molly presses the phone between her small breasts and attempts to turn away, shielding her connection to Sherlock with her own body. Hissing angrily, Helen draws her arm back so quickly that Pat has time only shout a warning – "Molly, look out!" – before her open hand lands hard across the left side of her daughter's face. It's no glancing blow or warning tap, but a hard punishment; Molly's ear begins to ring and she cries out, dropping the receiver. It clatters to the floor, cord bouncing and jerking.

"You know better than to back talk me, Mary Katherine! Pick up the phone and hand it to me right now." Unable to keep herself from tears, Molly obeys, bending in an awkward fashion, as she keeps her neck craned to watch her mother in case another slap is headed her way. Snagging the phone she reels it up by the cord.

"Molly?" Sherlock is demanding, his voice pitchy with shock and what seems to be anger. "Molly, are you there?"

"I'm sorry," she quickly whispers to the mouth piece, earning herself another slap, this time on her left ear. Shrill, pained ringing erupts and stars flicker behind her eyes, the sudden pain causing her stomach to roil menacingly. Dazed as she is, she doesn't she the next hit coming and does not even flinch back, taking this one with full force across the side of her face.

"I said give me the phone, not talk to him – now, Mary Katherine!" Molly thrusts the phone forward. As soon as it's in her mother's hands she darts to Pat, knotting her fingers in the front of his shirt and weeping with in a mix of humiliation, pain, and helpless anger.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Helen is demanding of Sherlock, vibrating with an amount of rage that is utterly shocking to her only child. How can she be so angry that Molly's found her Alpha, the one person in the world that's meant to be hers? Why? Like Uncle Steve said, it's supposed to be a happy time in her life, a cause for two families to come together and celebrate. Instead Mum is shouting at her Alpha, her future Bondmate, as though he's assaulted Molly. "You don't get to waltz into my daughter's life and start –"

Sucking in a tight breath, Helen turns a sickly shade of white… except for the two hot roses of rage that ride high on her cheeks. She's silent a moment, chewing so hard on her thin lips that at one corner she draws blood. "What did you just say to me, young man? Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

By the time Molly's dad barrels into the kitchen, breathing hard and with sweat on his forehead – she expects he's been out of the house, trying to walk off his frustration with his wife – Helen is very slowly hanging up the phone. "The hell do you think you're doing, Helen?" he's demanding, looking moments away from throttling her. "Was that him? How can you be so fucking selfish –"

"You're forbidden to see him." Little by little, Helen turns, narrowing a hard gaze on Molly. "Do you understand me, Mary Katherine? Forbidden."

"Over my cold, dead body," Ned snarls, a beastly rumble to his voice.

"My house, my rules."

"Our house, our rules – you might get your way the rest of the time by being an absolute bitch, but not this time. You're not going to –" she tries to hit him, snaps a hand out. Molly flinches back, an unconscious reaction to the sight, but her father catches Helen's wrists with the inhuman speed of an Alpha in a fury. "You're not going to bully Molly into giving up her happiness. Do you understand? And if you ever hit her again, you'll regret it."

"What're you gonna do to me, Ned? Beat me? You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, because you're nothing but an animal."

Once again, Pat drags Molly away. Through the pantry is the old servant's staircase, and they follow it up to the first floor. Molly's bedroom is at the back of the house, facing the garden. The branches of the giant old yew tree scrape across the glass of the furthest window when the wind picks up, and at night the branches casts strange, long shadows, but she's always like it. It's comforting in a way she can't explain. But not today; no, nothing can cheer her up now.

"He hates me, now," she cries, burying her face in her hands and sinking to the edge of her bed. Embarrassment is boiling up inside her chest, spilling hotly into her blood. Sherlock heard all of that, heard and knows how stupid and weak she is, how her own Mum talks to her. Oh God, it's ruined, and she only had him for a few hours….

"It's not you he hates, love." Pat is quick to wrap her back up, tugging her back so they're lying on the bed together. She curls up against his side, pressing her face in his neck and weeping as though she's lost the only thing her world that matters. And in a way she has: Molly's lost her future with the boy meant to be her Bondmate, and she's never experienced pain on this level before. "Twenty quid says you'll hear from this weekend, yeah? Don't cry, Molls. It's gonna be okay."

Twenty minutes later Helen steps into the room, bearing red rimmed eyes and a nose swollen from angry sobbing; she stares at the two of them, holding each other on the bed. "Go home, Patrick," she firmly orders, something venomous in her tone. He glowers for a moment before kissing Molly's forehead, slipping free. Defiantly he stares his aunt down as he squeezes past her, bulling his chest out as though daring her to hit him; Molly hasn't got a doubt in her mind that if Mum lifted a hand to Pat he'd belt her right back, and seeing how big and strong he is, she's sure her mother would get the worse end of the beating. Instead Helen balls her fists up and looks down her nose at the boy, closing the door behind him once he's departed.

"That's a sin," she announces, and Molly pauses in the act of sitting up to give her mother a blank stare.

In a thick, hoarse voice she puts words to her confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You know what. It's disgusting how you and he parade around – do you think I don't see it? He's your cousin, Mary Katherine, and you'll burn in hell if you don't repent."

It takes a long moment for comprehension to burst over Molly, but when it does she physically gags and has to clamp a hand over her mouth, fearful she'll be sick on herself. Her gaze is horror stricken. "Mum, no, never – Pat's like my brother –"

"I'm not blind, Mary Katherine! I saw the two of you on that bed just now!"

"We were lying down! I was crying, he was hugging me – it wasn't like that!"

"I won't have you lying to my face!"

"I'm n-n-not!" Shaking, unable to breathe, Molly curls her hands behind her neck before bending until her forehead is on her knees. The world is swimming, making her stomach toss and turn; her brain feels as though it has turned to liquid and is sloshing about the inside of her skull which only making the tide of sickness worse. Bile is strong and acidic at the back of her throat, feeling as though it's eating its way through all the soft tissues between it and the outside world.

"Boys only want one thing, and you're tempting your own cousin into such evil – I can't imagine what you'd do with that Sherlock boy. Call it Bonding and dress it up however you'd like, but it's still nothing more than a perversion. I won't have it going on under my roof, do you understand?"

Taking her daughter's broken, gasping sobs as acknowledgement, Helen leaves the room. Only a month before she'd installed a lock on the outside of the door, after catching Molly sneaking out to meet several of her cousins and go see a PG-13 movie without permission. Molly's not quite sure if her dad simply hasn't noticed or if he turns a blind eye, unwilling to truly see how his wife's actions are escalating. Molly's not the sort of girl to wallow in self pity or brood on ugly thoughts, and she's certainly not one for blaming others for her problems, but this is all simply too much. She's locked up like a rat in a cage, being denied the promise of a glorious future with her Bondmate, and her mother is accusing of her incest. Not even her naturally sweet personality can withstand this cruelty.

"It's n-not fair," she weeps into her knees. Outside the yew's branches cast swaying shadows on the walls and ceiling, as though attempting to stretch out and comfort her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God bless MizJoely for continuing to beta for me, proving she has the patience of a saint. I don't know she puts up with me, to be honest. Glorious, rapturous applause for everyone that reviewed, sent me messages, and jumped me on tumble to talk about Religion; none of you have any idea how much I appreciate and thrive on it! And remember, I LOVE concrete, don't be afraid to say something if you see a way I can improve! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Look at all the shit I don't own.

Mycroft Holmes is steadily advancing up the chain of government command, and his younger brother suspects he will soon become not a member of and more puppeteer in the shadows. The eldest Holmes is already carving out space for his youngest brother, visions of a sibling take-over in mind, and there’s logic in the assumption. Together they could turn Britain into more than a former empire or a country that comes in second to the United States on the topic of global leadership. There is no mind brighter than these three, after all, and if they were to work in tandem… 

The mere thought forces Sherlock to burst into hives. It’s why he avoids calling in favors to his brother, afraid to rack up a debt that can only be paid by joining the family business his parents left behind many years ago. (Oh, yes, Mother’s a mathematician; she wrote books and still gives lecture tours, there’s no denying it, but there’s so much the public doesn’t – and never will – know about Maura Elizabeth Vernet-Holmes. As for her husband, well, William Holmes carries the air of an absentminded professor incredibly well, but he also teaches his sons hand-to-hand combat and weapons training and the quickest ways to build and dismantle bombs. Shadow Squadron, his old unit was called; Sherlock wonders if they still use the same moniker.) 

If time had been less of an issue, he’d have called Erasmus and not Mycroft. There are certainly lesser evils when it comes to dealing with his brothers, but time is a luxury Sherlock is not in possession of at the moment.

“Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper: I need all the information available.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, one that rings of a cat that has lured the canary out of its cage. “Erasmus could certainly gather such intelligence and has far less important matters to deal with than I.”

Smug bastard, Sherlock bites his tongue to keep from muttering. “It’s required immediately. I’ll hold for it.”

“Tit for tat, brother mine: why do you require such information? Have we finally begun developing special feelings in our privates at the thought of the opposite sex?”

“Not that you’d know anything about that. Have you told Mummy about the new man in your life? It’s becoming rather serious; you’ve even changed your cologne.”

“My goodness, I didn’t realize the height of your obsession. If you’re planning on emulating me, you must stop playing stupid.”

Sucking in air between tightly clenched teeth, Sherlock briefly fantasizes punching his brother square in the face. His imagination is as highly developed and impressive as the rest of him, and it goes in a long way in lowering his blood pressure and urge to scream profanities. “Yes, I met a girl.”

“Really, Sherlock, stalking? An act that is even beneath you, surely you must realize this.”

“I’m not stalking her, Mycroft. Just get me the damn information already.”

“Is she an Omega, or this a run of the mill infatuation?”

Clearly the only way to win this game is to lose, at least by their usual standers. Gods, Sherlock loathes losing to Mycroft. But Molly’s safety is infinitely more important than his ego – damn, that’s a strange realization, that someone or something comes above his own sense of pride and self. Has he ever realized this before? Not when it comes to his brother, that’s for certain. “Not an Omega; Molly Hooper is my Omega. I believe her well-being is at risk, and I promise you, Mycroft, if your childish antics cause her to be harmed I will take my pound of flesh from you. Which you’d thank me for, I’m sure, as you’ve began putting on even more weight since entered this relationship with, ah, yes, Doug. Who you haven’t introduced to the family, but I do believe Mummy could engineer a meeting if, say, someone were to let it slip that her Mikey-poo is in an actual, adult relationship.”

A pause, now, filled with the sound of Mycroft’s breathing and papers rustling. There’s the tap tap tap of high heels on the floor, coming close and then retreating, followed by the soft squeak and thump of a door closing. Sherlock hopes his assistant got to hear him being outwitted by a seventeen year old Mycroft likes to refer to as dull. “Well played,” the government official congratulates. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock civilly accepts. “Do change the score to reflect.”

“Yes, of course. Now, here is the file on your Mary Katherine Georgette Hooper: born February 22nd, 1979 –”

“You’d already called for it,” Sherlock accuses, indignation heating his blood. “Are you having me followed again?”

“I got to add some very racy surveillance photos to both your files; your team though the two of you might shag right in that dirty alley. Seemed a bit put out they hadn’t got more of a show, to be honest.”

“It’s Erasmus. You’ve got Erasmus keeping bloody watch on me!”

“After that stunt you pulled last month –”

“Oh, now you’re just jealous –”

“Sherlock, you nearly started a war!”

“Jealous, as I said!”

“I thought time was of the essence, brother dear?” 

Instead of replying, Sherlock sniffs, shooting an annoyed glower at the ceiling. If he doesn’t let Mycroft have the last word he’ll never get the required information. 

“Glad to see you’ve made your mind up. Alright then… her parents are Edward and Helen Hooper, nee Flannigan, married on June 14th, 1975 in Our Lady Grace and St Edward’s, and they immediately set up house in Chiswick in a home partially purchased by Thorton and Viola Hooper, Edward’s grandparents. They’ve maintained this house ever since – the Hooper family has done their best purchase up close to a block of residential area, it looks like most of the extended family all live there together – scared yet?” 

A bit. “The rest?” he bites off, irritated beyond words.

“Mary Katherine – who goes by Molly – is an only child. Her father is an unmated Alpha and her mother is mundane, unsurprising given the relative uncommonness of Omegas and Betas, especially in their generation. Though the Hooper family seems to have a higher than usual Bonding rate. Hmm… she attended St. Mary’s Primary and now attends Sacred Heart High School, with an academic record that is rather above average, and has expressed interest in perusing higher education in the fields of medicine or science. Her father Edward works for Fuller’s Brewery in the advertising department while her mother is a homemaker. In 1988 there was an unfortunate accident involving the Edward Hooper family: driving back after spending New Years with the Flannigan family, they were struck by a vehicle operated by one Jason Smith, who fell asleep behind the wheel and drifted into the oncoming lane. Young Molly suffered several broken bones which required surgery to her left hip and femur, her father’s back was broken, and her mother suffered severe trauma to the brain after being thrown through the windscreen. Edward Thorton Hooper Junior, aged five years, was killed instantly, resulting in a law suit against the maker of his safety seat which failed upon impact.”

An idea begins to form, and Sherlock dislikes the outline it takes. “Address?” he demands, committing it to memory as soon as it’s spoken.

“Don’t forget – you owe me.” There’s an impossible amount of smugness in those words. Sherlock’s answer is to hang up, mashing the end button a few more times than necessary as he springs from the chair beside his window. He’s quick and light footed as he makes his way downstairs, hoping to leave without catching his mother’s attention. 

Unfortunately, his father is leaning against the front door. There’s dirt on his trousers and hands, clear signs of work being done in the garden. He’s cleaning the out from his thumbnail with the blade of his pocket knife. “Going somewhere?” he inquires without looking up.

“Out,” Sherlock answers sharply, belatedly realizing this answer provides only enough to make his father dig harder. “Back to the dorm – I’ve got a project to finish, and since Mum says I have to participate in my classes…” He shrugs, pulling a mask of only mild annoyance onto his face. 

“And I’d thought you’d be heading out to your Molly’s, after that disastrous phone call.” 

“Were you and Mum listening in?”

“Do you think I could have stopped her?” 

That’s a valid point. “She hit Molly, Dad. I heard it.”

“Yes.”

“She hit her!”

“Yes, son – and she made it clear that you are in no way welcome in Molly’s life.” 

“That’s not her choice to make.”

“Until she’s of legal age, I’m afraid it is her parent’s decision.”

“Last year a court ruled that in the case of an Alpha and Omega that are, or will become, Bonded, then it’s their right to chose.”

“Do you really want to drive a wedge between Molly and her parents?”

“If her parents are so cruel as to try and keep us apart, then there’s no need for them in our lives.” 

With a heavy sigh, William shakes his head. There’s something old and sad about him in this moment. “Our lives?” he repeats, closing the pocket it knife before it’s tucked away. “Son, you’re seventeen, and how old is this girl? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen in February,” he grudgingly tacks on, as though that may make it better.

“You’re too young to even comprehend what Bonding truly means. If it were only up to me –”

“You’d really leave my Omega in an unsafe position? The future mother of your potential grandchildren?” Guilt can do wonders, Sherlock has learned… and he does have a gift for manipulation.

His father levels a stern expression on him. “Don’t try that with me; your mothers infinitely better at it and if I can resist her, I can certainly resist you. No, I won’t leave her there without knowing she’s going to be safe – but I think you’re about to rush off and do something stupid, and I want to make sure you understand the full ramifications of your actions. If you take her away from her family, she’s going to need you to be there for her. To be strong when she’s weak, and to let her in your life despite your mood or tendency to shut people out – you understand? You’ll have to grow up, and being selfish is no longer an option. You still want to run off?”

Taking a moment, Sherlock considers. There’s something ugly and scared rising up in his chest, shouting that he needs to run as far and as fast as he possibly can. It’s more than his age, it’s the fact that he’s a freak and he hasn’t got any idea how to relate on a purely emotional level to anyone else. God knows his parents tried to teach him, but the other children in his life were so dull and slow he couldn’t stand them, and he was also so busy imitating Mycroft that he never bothered to try and see why Erasmus was so infatuated with them. He almost turns this matter over to his father, who he knows will deal with Helen Hooper and make sure that Molly is well taken care of.

But then he thinks of her scent, already engrained in his memory so clearly he swears he catches a faint whiff of her. He remembers the way she’d smiled at him, how her mouth felt under his and the way her fingers curled into the fabric over his shoulders. There’s something primal and fierce rising up inside him, drowning out the scared, childish voice calling for a retreat. 

“I know,” he finally admits, straightening his back and looking up to meet his father’s gaze. “I don’t know how to provide what she’ll need from me, but I’ll do my best. I’ll learn. She needs me, Dad.”

There’s never been such a look of pride on William’s face, at least not in Sherlock’s memory. The distance between them is eaten up before one large hand rests on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing. “Take my car. And son… try not to get thrown in jail, okay? You know how it upsets your mother.”

 

\----X----

 

Molly wakes from a light, restless sleep to the sound of her bedroom door slowly creaking open. Lungs seize in fear she waits, trembling, beneath her heavy winter quilt. Her father hasn’t bothered to check on her in the night since she was small, and she’d actually prefer a robber instead of it being her mum, who sometimes likes to wake Molly to fight over some imagined or minor infraction of the rules. Squeezing her eyes she waits, hoping whoever it is will simply leave her alone.

The floorboards creak, and a scent wafts towards her seconds after Molly’s lungs, shrieking for oxygen, unlock. Bolting upright in her bed, a breathless sound of shock only half-swallowed emerges in a bare whisper. “Sherlock?” He’s halfway across her room, a tall, gaunt shadow in the dim light, but she can make out his wide eyes and the finger he’s holding to his mouth emphatically. She nods to show her understanding, something wild and painfully grateful building inside her chest.

Quiet as a cat burglar he advances forward, crouching down on the balls of his feet once he’s at her bedside. One careful hand curls around the back of her neck in a light touch, pulling Molly down until his mouth is against her ear; he speaks so quietly that his words are more of a suggestion than something she actually hears. “Pack only what you absolutely cannot leave behind and only what’s in this room.” He hands Molly her glasses, which were resting on the nightstand.

The entire time it feels as though her heart is going to hammer right out of her chest, and she’s shaking with adrenaline, fear, and hope. If they’re caught, God, Mum will kill them – but she’s so tired of this life, of being scared and hit and treated as though each breath she draws is a horrendous sin. Packing isn’t an issue, as she’s got a bag tucked just inside her closet, a just-in-case precaution. It’s not very large so she crams it into her book bag, making sure it’s completely shut before she shrugs it across her body. One nod to Sherlock is all it takes for his hand to find her own and then they’re sneaking out of her room.

He takes her to the back staircase, and then to the garden door. Waiting for them is Pat, who appears washed out and ghostly in the moonlight. He shoos them on with two flapping hands, and Molly catches the scent of oil as they pass – he must have oiled the garden gate to keep it from shrieking obnoxiously when he and Sherlock entered. It leads to the alley between their house and the next, where cars park off the road and they leave their bikes leaning against the fence. To Molly their footfalls sound like echoing drumbeats, and her breathing seems to be amplified over dozens of speakers. A dog is barking a street over, and she almost trips when it beings, looking behind her in a desperate sort of fear.

Where the lane intersects the main road, they stop. Molly bends, hands on her knees as she tries to catch her breath. “Are you crazy?” she gasps, pressing a hand over her chest. “If my mother caught you, she’d have you thrown in jail or –”

“She didn’t,” Sherlock cuts her off. Carefully he takes her arm, pulling until she’s upright. Two fingers press under her chin, pushing her face up until the streetlight displays the swelling of her face. Bruises are already filling in, black and blue and purple, and the larger one is very clearly in the shape of a hand. Ashamed Molly closes her eyes, and so she does not see the spasm of rage that crosses over Sherlock’s face. “How long has this been going on?”

“I-it’s not her fault, really – I know everyone says that, but there was an accident, and –”

“Years,” Pat answers flatly. “She restrains herself all the time, so the accident isn’t an excuse, Molls. If she couldn’t stop it she’d beat you bloody every time you did something ‘wrong’ in public; instead she waits until you’re back home. Don’t make excuses for her.” 

“But –”

“Stop,” Sherlock orders with a cold fury. “Don’t apologize for or excuse her ever again, Molly Hooper.” 

Looking over his shoulder worriedly, Pat speaks. “You’d better go. I’ll cover for you best I can. Better not come to school tomorrow, okay? Give it a few days.”

“I’m not missing –”

“I’ll pick up your work, okay? Seriously, just this one time, play hooky.”

Throat too tight to speak, Molly nods in answer. There are no hugs and kisses or I-love-you’s shared between the cousins, just a look that speaks more than words and a short grasping of their hands. Then Pat is jogging back to his house and Sherlock has an arm looped around Molly’s shoulders, guiding her towards a parked car. She’d always imagined running away would make her feel powerful and free, but her abused face throbs agonizingly in time with her heartbeat, and she’s so overcome with fearful nerves she has to pull away from Sherlock to get sick in nearby shrubbery. He doesn’t seem appalled or even slightly phased by witnessing her vomiting; instead he hands her a stick of gum before urging her on.

For a moment, she almost turns and runs home. She’s petrified, overwhelmed with anxiety. Mum is going to murder her, literally murder her for doing this. But then Sherlock puts his hand on the small of her back, directing her to the passenger side of the sedan, and somehow her jitters become less overpowering. Whatever happens, she’s not in this alone.

She begins crying as soon as they pull away from the curb, and for the first time it’s not out of fear or self-loathing, but hatred… hatred directed for firmly at her parents, who never should have put in the position to have to run away in the middle of the night with a boy she’s not even known an entire day. She’s furious for all the years of her mother’s abuse and her father’s negligence, his willingness to make excuses and turn a blind eye to the escalation of his wife’s cruelty. Most she’s hideously angry that her mother has twisted her until she’s guilty for leaving, ashamed for abandoning the woman that has tortured her for the past six years – no, not abandoning. Escaping. Fleeing. 

In a dimly lit parking garage outside Sherlock’s university, he takes her hand but stares firmly out the window. “What do you need?” he quietly asks.

“You,” she answers with an artless honesty, too raw to search for a less pleading admission. “Don’t leave me… please.” 

He nods and smiles a little, and everything seems much more hopeful and brighter than it did just seconds before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would normally never update so quickly, but I can't keep from writing. At least I'm maintaining a bit of control, posting only when I've got the next chapter finished. Thank you to everyone that has reviewed and sent me message, I really appreciate it! Bless MizJoely for her editing magic!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Disturbing imagery, imagined sexual violence (sort of).
> 
> Disclaimer: Bards will write odes honoring all the shit I don't own.

Molly Hooper is the first girl to be in Sherlock’s bed and as much as it shouldn’t mean anything – especially considering the circumstances of her arrival to said bed – it’s all he can think of. If his brain were as big as his mind, his head would form a new center of gravity and the galaxy would spin around Sherlock Holmes; his IQ quite literally tests off the charts and he once taught himself Mandarin Chinese in a few days simply from boredom and lack of anything more interesting being on hand. All things considered, the presence of a mere female sleeping upon an object built and kept for the sole purpose of humans sleeping on it shouldn’t rocket him into stupidity. But it does, it absolutely does, and there’s nothing else he can focus on. Nothing is more interesting than the cinnamon hair spread across his pillow or the bruised little face that’s made lax and peaceful in slumber.

To another boy the pattern of bruising would be meaningless, but to Sherlock it is a diagram of Helen Hooper’s latest abuse. (‘Latest’ as he has no doubt in his mind that this has been going on for years, that his Molly has suffered without aid or help beyond the meager sheltering of her cousins.) First was a blow brought down hard and fast from overhead, openhanded, a slap so vicious that the left side of Molly’s face has become a livid handprint of purple, black, and blue; as the days pass the colors will become more lurid and ugly, a darker testimony to this girl’s pain. Her upper lip is swollen, undoubtedly split inside from being forced against sharp teeth, a result of the second blow. Blood is present in the ear canal, and he fears her eardrum was ruptured by the third assault which came from the side with a vicious force and was centered deliberately over her ear. Once the university clinic is opened he’ll take her there, even if he has to carry her over his shoulder to do so. If it is ruptured infection could set in, and Molly shouldn’t have to endure any more pain than she already has. 

Without meaning to, without permission, Sherlock’s arm lifts. He trails a finger, light as a faint winter breeze, across Molly’s swollen jaw. He’s read more than his share of literature on A/B/O biology, originally planning to use his knowledge to resist or circumvent any primal urges that might come upon him, but now the knowledge has transformed into a guide to understanding his current situation. Or at least attempting to understand his draw to and feelings towards Molly Hooper, though he’s rather baffled by the logical facts not truly helping him in this situation at all; like the murky waters of social interaction and acceptably, a romantic relationship is impervious to logic. 

Alphas are programmed to protect and care for their Omegas, fighting and providing for them to prove they remain a worthy mate and potential father of offspring and Sherlock understands this down to the molecular level. What he cannot comprehend is the vast, choking rage that suffuses him with the desire to tear right back to Cheswick and beat her mother literally to death. He imagines hot blood on his face and hands, spraying in his mouth, the sound of breaking bones and wet, gurgling cries as he shatters her face; he thinks of coming home to Molly after, of kissing her deep so she can taste the blood, too, of fisting his hands in her hair and knotting her until she screams and thanks him for protecting her. In his mind she offers her neck up, a willing submission, and when he sinks his teeth into her flesh she digs her nails into his back and shoulders, seeking blood and crying, “I’m yours, I’m yours; you own me!” 

Breaking from his fevered imagination, Sherlock balls his hands into tight fists and stares firmly into a middle distance. If he were younger or less disciplined, there would be horrified tears in his eyes. He’s no animal, no mindless beast, but he thinks of killing Helen Hooper and fucking her daughter after and becomes so aroused it’s difficult to find a reason not to act on his impulses. There are always stories on the news and in papers of Alpha’s assaulting anyone that dares harm his or her Bondmate, and the laws are more lenient in those cases. Would you punish a lion for being a lion, lawyers argue, and juries and judges have said no, of course not; clearly they aren’t in control of themselves during those attacks. 

Sherlock is better than any of that, however. He’s stronger. 

Deep breaths, then: center, find focus, relax relax relax…

The phone rings, the shrill jangling jarring Sherlock from his mind palace. In truth, he’s grateful for the distraction. He’s quick to jump up and cross his small bedroom, answering even as he turns back to Molly, checking to make sure the loud noise didn’t disturb her. “Hello?”

“Has she made you a man yet?” Erasmus asks with far too much cheer than the situation calls for. 

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Sherlock simultaneously rubs his forehead, as though he can massage away the developing headache, while grinding his teeth together, making pain shoot from his overly tensed jaw to his throbbing temples. “Do you truly believe now is the appropriate time for intercourse? You’re always going on about how I need to learn and respect the emotional reactions of the people around me, and I’m going out on a limb and saying being beaten by her mother and forced to run away with her Alpha – who she’s spent no more than seven hours with and the bulk of them sleeping – is the wrong time to attempt to… ‘get off’ with her.” His lips curl in distaste of the slang, though his stomach leaps, forgoing disgust to focus on excitement and want. 

“Jesus, Lock, I was kidding.” Erasmus has this tone of voice that’s somewhere between amused exasperation and a confusion that clearly relays his disbelief at his brother’s actions. He wields it now and to great effect, making Sherlock scowl and shift uncomfortably.

“How many times must I ask you not to –”

“You don’t like Lock? Fine, Willy it is.”

“No, absolutely not –”

“Ol’ Willy Holmes, genius virgin with a stick up his arse. Willy Will William!” 

Damn but he wishes he’d been an only child. “Lock is acceptable.”

“I’m nearly to your door. I don’t want to mess with picking the lock, just open it.”

“What? Why? What are you doing here?” That’s not panic in his voice, it’s only forceful curiosity and outrage. 

“The police are on their way, and Mum and Dad thought it would be best if someone was there to keep you from doing something stupid.”

Immediately his gaze turns to Molly, who hasn’t so much as stirred. No snores escape her sinuses; instead she puffs on most exhales, a soft noise. Every once in a while her nose or extremities twitch, quick little motions signifying REM sleep. There’s a fire in his stomach and a certainty that if God Himself decided to stir from his hallowed sky palace, descending on the earth to demand Molly Hooper be returned to her family, Sherlock would fight to the bloody end to see her remain with him. It’s not a purely selfish decision, though there are certainly selfish motivations; instead the fierceness of it rests on the foundation of her safety.

He won’t let her come to harm, not so long as he can prevent it from occurring.

Over the line Erasmus sighs, and before Sherlock can comprehend the sounds coming to him over the electronic line there’s a click and the sound of a door opening, which echoes out from the front of his suite. “I thought you said you didn’t want to pick the lock?” 

“Yeah, well, I had to.” The university flat isn’t much; two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and a space that is the kitchen, dining room, and living room all at once. He’d rather be in a flat off campus and alone, but his parents insisted he attempt to mingle with the common masses, thinking it might do his social graces some good. His roommate, whose name Sherlock can rarely be bothered to remember, spends much of his time bunking over with other people to escape the madness and mood swings. 

The bedroom door opens and Erasmus steps in, shoving his bulky mobile phone into the messenger bag strapped across his body. He’s tall and narrow, like Sherlock, with bright blue eyes and a plump mouth prone to excessive expression. His hair falls in soft brown curls about his ears and below his collar, almost long enough to be pulled back in a short tail. It’s easy to ready his body language, that he’s forcing his muscles into laxness and is pouring lead into his feet to prevent him from pacing, a nervous habit that drives Mycroft utterly bonkers, and it’s all to keep Sherlock calm. 

His gaze flickers about the room, reading the details of his younger brother’s day-to-day life from the clutter on his desk and the little table beside his bed, his overly packed bookshelf and the stacks of books on the floor. A half-finished experiment takes up space on the window ledge. After seconds of stalling, involving peering at the ceiling as though the cobwebs in the corners may hold some intimate secrets, he turns his eyes to the bed… and the girl between its sheets. Sherlock watches muscles jump in his brother’s jaw, neck, and shoulders, catches the emotion that boils in Erasmus’ eyes before he studiously blankets it. 

“It’s worse up close,” he comments quietly, lips twitching. “Mrs. Hooper really did a number on the girl.”

Responding is impossible, because it’s literally all Sherlock can do to keep from snarling in the manner of an enraged animal, an action he will not indulge so long as he can stifle it. 

“She’s the one that called Scotland Yard and reported Molly kidnapped. Mr. Hooper was unwilling to see it done, but didn’t put up much of a fight. Patrick Hooper, the cousin that helped you last night, his parents and siblings have formed a human wall around him, so to speak. Mrs. Hooper seemed intent on clawing his eyes out early this morning, but the second Mrs. Hooper, Pat’s mother, she’s a fighter. Didn’t take too kindly to the suggestion that Molly and Pat are… kissing cousins, you know?” Quirking his eyebrow, Erasmus gives Sherlock a hard sort of look, as though commanding his younger brother to comprehend without an explanation. It takes a moment longer than it should, but understanding comes to Sherlock as the sun pulling above the horizon at dawn.

“She accused Molly and Pat of incest?” he surmises. There is a curious sort of coldness washing through him, chilling and honing his anger into something more deadly than it was before.

“Seems like she confronted Molly about it, tried to tell Pat’s mum that Molly didn’t deny it, that she was proud of it; Patrick came out swinging. Literally, he got out between some older siblings and charged Mrs. Hooper. If his dad hadn’t caught him…” Erasmus shrugs. “Can’t blame the kid, I’d have done the same thing. God, Lock, can you imagine? Mum and Dad can be annoying, yeah, but her parents are fucking insane. ‘Least her dad’s not as bad as his missus.”

“He’s worse,” Sherlock harshly condemns. “He doesn’t protect Molly from that woman. At least she has something of an excuse.”

“Yeah, I read the files Mikey provided. Seems convenient, though, doesn’t it? Traumatic brain injury can cause a complete change of character, but I don’t know… it seems a bit much, right? I can buy that the accident made her legitimately insane or reversed her personality to the point of absolute cruelty, but why does it only seem to be directed at Molly? Anyone that defends or helps her or gets in the way of Mrs. Hooper’s abuse of her, they get attacked – like how Pat was accused of sleeping with her, right? But it all centers on Molly.”  
Erasmus brings up a valid point, one that Sherlock hadn’t missed. “We need more data,” he tells his brother with no small amount of frustration. Raking a hand through his hair, he’s about to present a possible hypothesis when Molly begins to shift restlessly; her breathing increases and her limbs begin to twitch and jerk, signifying the presence of a troubling dream. Sherlock wouldn’t doubt that she’s suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and is unsurprised by this turn of events. From the short conversation he’d held with Pat Hooper before sneaking into Molly’s house, it was easy to surmise that the abuse inflicted on Molly has been far more severe than he’d first expected and will have undoubtedly left scars on the girl.

Shoving past Erasmus, Sherlock hurries to the bed. He crouches beside it, taking Molly’s hand in one of his own while smoothing the hair away from her injured face. They aren’t yet Bonded but his presence will soothe her, his unique scent registering in her unconscious mind and (hopefully) evoking feelings of security and pleasure. Without warning emotion spears through Sherlock with all the force of a bolt from a crossbow, shattering his ribs and piercing vital organs as he realizes that while so many others have accused him of not having a heart, they were so very wrong. It was only that it has never been carried inside his body, but was hidden under the fragile skin and light bones of this girl, tucked deep inside where none could find or do him harm… until now. 

This realization is as terrifying as it is humbling, and Sherlock can’t keep from trembling. Carefully he leans down, pressing his mouth to the corner of her lips to taste her breath and her skin, seeking reassurance that she’s with him and safe. It’s a blessing that Erasmus is watching, as it is only this knowledge that keeps Sherlock from shucking his clothing and crawling onto the bed with Molly, from tearing her clothing off and wrapping himself around her. It’s not a sexual urge – or not entirely so – but a need to feel skin-on-skin, a desire for closeness that Sherlock has never experienced before.

Molly begins to wake, her breathing changing and the movements of her limbs slowing. This close, Sherlock’s keen ears can pick up the faint thud of her heartbeat behind her ribs, or is that only wishful thinking? She presses towards him, curling towards the warmth of a body and the scent of her Alpha, her hand taking a firm grasp on his. “Sherlock?” she murmurs as she wakes, her eyes not yet open. The sound of his name from her sleepy lips strikes him with the force of a lightning bolt.

“Good morning,” he quietly responds, aware of each small nuance of her body. Her eyes open, the corners crinkling sweetly as she almost smiles before the pain from her bruises asserts it’s self. She winces, one hand lifting up to gingerly brush against the side of her face and mouth, judging the injuries for herself. Sherlock catches her hand, keeping her from causing further pain. “Don’t touch, you’ll make it worse.”

“Is it very bad?” Her speech is thick, and he wonders if her jaw was injured, dislocated or fractured. The thought brings the anger rushing back, but he forces gentleness into his motions as he runs a fingertip over the shell of her ear. He doesn’t miss Molly shiver or the flash of surprise in her eyes, either. 

“It’s not very good,” he admits. 

A hard knock rattles the door to the suite. A policeman loudly demands through the door, “Metropolitan Police, open up.”

“Hell, they got here quick,” Erasmus notes. 

“Who –” Molly starts to ask; she appears quite confused and rather scared, pulling the heavy comforter to her chin as though she’d like very much to hide. It seems that fear has caused her tongue to stick to the roof of her mouth, not allowing her to complete the thought. 

Sherlock shoots Erasmus a dark look. “That’s my brother, Erasmus. Your mother called the police, and we’ve got to answer the door. But don’t worry, alright? I’m not going to let you take you back.”

Her fingers press into the spaces between his own seeking comfort and safety. Sherlock allows it, rather shocked by how pleased he is with Molly’s instinctive need for closeness. He hasn’t ever cared for such things before, but then again, it was never her instigating physical contact. 

“Hate to break up the love fest, but…” Shrugging as the police pound on the door once more, repeating his earlier words but twice as loudly, Erasmus jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll answer that. Don’t take too long, Molly, they’re going to want to see you.” He disappears through the doorway, his boots heavy and loud on cheap linoleum. 

Their eyes meet, and a silent communication is had. On an instinctual level Sherlock knows that Molly needs strength and he wordlessly offers it, mouth twisting into a thin but encouraging smile even as he squeezes her fingers. There is a subtle loosening of her muscles that signifies not only her understanding but her acceptance, though she’s by no means set entirely at ease. Only a very stupid person would be carefree and unconcerned in this moment, and Molly is undoubtedly one of the more clever persons in the world. Not as clever as Sherlock, but then again, who is? Bright enough to almost keep up with him, to hopefully keep him interested and engaged. 

“Your brother’s harboring a minor,” a man is not quite shouting in the front room. “If Mr. and Mrs. Hooper press charges, he can be put up for kidnapping, you get that? Now where the hell is Molly?”

The girl in question squints towards the open door. “Greg?” Her voice is far too quiet to be heard by anyone other than Sherlock, but she untangles their hands and swiftly slides from the bed. She stumbles a bit, adding weight to the theory that her ear drum is damaged or ruptured, but finds her balance as she crosses the room. Sherlock rises and follows, pushing his hands into his pockets (all the better to keep from reaching out or, even worse, grabbing Molly and pushing her once more out of sight) and affecting an expression of unconcerned boredom. 

In the main part of the suite, there are two policemen. It’s the younger that holds Molly’s attention. “Greg?” she repeats, coming to a halt.

“There you – holy fucking hell, Molls, your fucking face!” Swiftly the man in question shoves past Erasmus, bolting to Molly. He’s swearing the whole time, his face turning a hideous shade of puce as outrage clearly sweeps over him. “Did Helen do this? Huh? Was it your mum? God fucking damn it, I told Jeanie we needed to do something, but she swore up and down Helen was all bark and no bite. No fucking bite, eh? Fuck.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, honest.”

Sherlock can’t keep from bristling due to the extremely familiar way the man handles her, gently scraping hair away from her forehead and holding her chin between thumb and forefinger to turn her face this way and that, surveying the damage dealt. Looking him up and down, Sherlock takes in the tiny details that spells out the basics of this man – this Greg’s – life: late twenties, newly married, smoker, childless, devoted to his work, considered capable of his job, avid football fan, harbors a secret addiction for trash tabloids, and a mundane human.

Stepping back, Molly meets Sherlock’s back and immediately leans against his body. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out her reason has more to do with calming the irritated Alpha behind her and not due to any discomfort on her part. “Sherlock, Greg Lestrade; he’s married to my cousin Jean. Greg, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s… he’s my Alpha.” Where her face is unmarred, her skin picks up a cherry red glow. 

“Alpha?” repeats Greg, brow furrowing. “Helen said –”

“Undoubtedly you were told I was an undesirable boyfriend that stole Molly from the bosom of her doting mother to have my wicked way with her,” Sherlock snaps off, settling a hand on Molly’s hip almost without thought. It’s strange how easily this comfort and need for contact is quickly becoming, and later, when he’s alone, perhaps he’ll even allow himself to be discomforted by this swift change to a basic tenant of his personality. “And of course you weren’t informed that Molly had not met just any man or a passing Alpha, but her future Bondmate. It does tend to complicate things, doesn’t it? As well as serve for the reason Mrs. Hooper attacked Molly.”

Understanding lights the constables gaze before he rolls his eyes heavenward, drawing his hand down his face. “Bloody hell, that woman is mad.”

“She’s sick,” Molly rebukes, twisting the hem of her shirt between nervous fingers. The way she curls her shoulders and lowers her chin speaks of a wish to be hidden, and she flinches at any quick or unexpected movement made near her. It makes him utterly furious, and his teeth grit together once more. Across the room Erasmus is giving him sternly imploring looks, silently cautioning against losing his temper. Restraint is difficult but somehow Sherlock manages it, though his control is threadbare and worn to the point of snapping from the onset. 

Lestrade doesn’t fight the point, simply turns back to his partner and begins to confer about law and procedure. Future Bondmates are legally superior to parental rights, so long as both parties are fifteen years of age or older, and with Molly clearly being the victim of abuse in her parent’s home, Helen Hooper really hasn’t got a leg to stand on legally. Still, procedure must be followed and so an Alpha Sergeant is called in to confirm their claim of Unbound mates by scent, and while they wait for her arrival Lestrade uses a disposable camera to take pictures of Molly’s face.

“You been to a doctor yet?” he inquires, thumb busy rolling the film. Her wordless response is negative. “If you want to file charges I’ll need to take you to a hospital –”

“I’m not filing charges against my mum.” 

Opening his mouth to argue the point (maybe thinking I can’t kill her if she’s with the Met, but no one could make him admit to it), Sherlock is stopped only by the vigorous shaking of his brother’s head. The motion is emphatic and serious. It’s galling to do so, but he defers to Erasmus’ knowledge out of a desire to comfort Molly, not further batter her with a fight over the proper course regarding her mother. After seventeen years of not caring about the emotional well-being of those around him, it’s incredibly disconcerting to be so wholly focused on the state of such, even if it is only one person that holds this level of regard. Soon he’ll be discussing his feelings with Erasmus and Mycroft will mock them both. 

Still, after the Alpha arrives – a stocky woman with fuzzy, bottle red hair and ultra-thin eyebrows; Bonded, three children (adopted), ate toast for breakfast – and confirms that Molly and Sherlock are actually an Unbonded pair, he slides close to Lestrade and murmurs, “I’m taking her to a clinic once you leave. It will be recorded by a medical professional.”

“Good,” the constable answers, watching the sergeant and his own partner attempt to talk Molly into changing her mind regarding the battery charges. “She’s a good kid, sure as hell doesn’t deserve the shit Helen puts her through.”

“Can’t have been going on very long, could it?” Of course he knows it’s been going on for ages, but information is offered best when given in the form of a correction. Normal people are so easy to manipulate that it’s honestly a bit boring. 

“Nah, poor kid’s been suffering for ages. I’ve talked to her about getting help, even tried to get her to come live with Jeanie and me – that was even before the wedding – but Helen’s got her so far under her thumb she got sick just talking about leaving. Literally, I mean, she got sick. How’d you manage it, then? Getting her out of the house?” 

His answer is a shrug, because it’s only now that Sherlock allows himself to comprehend the magnitude not of what he’s done, stealing Molly in the night like the spoils of war, but of what it means that she willingly came with him. It was not simply to escape her parents and the abuse she suffered in her home, no, it was because from the first moment she laid eyes on him Molly trusted him. What madness, such a sweet, innocent girl putting her faith in Sherlock Holmes, a boy that is clumsy and incompetent when it comes to matters of the heart and human relationships. She should have run away, put as much distance between them as possible, but instead she asked him stay with her and slept in his bed without a hint of fear that he may harm her when she’s at her most vulnerable. Even Unbound as they are, her instincts guide her to trust Sherlock with her very life, and that knowledge is… intoxicating. 

“Guess it’s the Alpha thing, yeah? However you did it, you’re a good kid for risking your own arse to help her. Thanks.” Lestrade claps Sherlock on the shoulder, a friendly gesture that matches his open smile. Sherlock is baffled by this turn of events, wholly unused to such genuine displays and overtures of friendship.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he blurts, hands back in his pockets and a rigid set to his back. It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it is, but his mouth won’t stop. “My actions were to benefit Molly alone. Leaving my Omega in that place would have resulted in future actions that would’ve assuredly brought us together in a worse situation. Worse by my standards, of course, as I would no doubt be in handcuffs and on my way to lock-up by now, had it been the case.”

Nodding just once and very slowly, the constable eyes Sherlock as though he’s only just realized he’s engaging a new species in conversation. “Okay then,” he responds, eyebrows lifting. “I’ll try and keep Helen off your backs but legally speaking there’s only so much I can do. She should look into finding a barrister. Oi, Mick, you ready?”

Lestrade’s partner hands Molly a card, taking great pains not to accidently touch her. Sherlock appreciates the delicacy being shown to his Omega, especially since she looks close to fainting at any given moment. “You call me anytime, day or night, Molly. We’ll keep you safe as long as you let us.”

“Thank you,” she responds, a small smile curling her mouth as her eyes drift up and over, finding Sherlock. The color warms until they’re the shade of preservative amber, which turns Sherlock into an absolute blob of adoration. “But Sherlock will keep me safe.”

The other woman, whose name Sherlock never bothered to get, shakes her head. “He’ll do his best, but there are limits even for your Alpha. You understand? There are things he can’t do, or shouldn’t do, or will get him in a lot of trouble if he acts on his urges. Not that I’d blame him for it –” she turns, giving Sherlock a fiercely sympathetic nod – “but the fact remains the same. You think it over, yeah? Give us a call if you change your mind. Stay safe, Miss Hooper.”

Lestrade hugs Molly before he leaves, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Stay strong,” he whispers into her hair, giving her arm a squeeze before he follows his partner across the flat and out the door. For a while there is only a quiet so profound that the wall clock counting each second seems deafening. Erasmus’ boots squeaking annoyingly as he shifts his weight. Nervously, Molly swipes her tongue across her lips to dampen them, watching Sherlock from under her lashes. 

“The clinic is open,” he announces, desperate to fill the void. “Are you ready to go?”

“Ready to – what? What clinic?” There’s panic in Molly’s eyes, and she even shuffles a few steps back. 

“Your jaw is dislocated,” Erasmus declares in a quiet voice, leaning against the wall so carelessly that an outsider might think this a conversation he has everyday. “It needs x-rays done. And you should be checked for a concussion or a hematoma, just in case.” 

Gnawing at her bottom lip, it takes her a moment to formulate a reply. “But – but I never go to a doctor after. I’ll heal up fine on my own, really. What can a doctor do for bruises, anyway?” Her smile is wan and rather sad, which disturbs Sherlock to no end.

“This time you are going to see a doctor.” Standing so straight his spine seems to have turned into an iron rod, Sherlock issues his command in such a way that all arguments are rendered null and void simply by virtue of his order. 

Her nod is a small, withered thing, and her gaze drops to her toes. “Okay. B-but I should at least shower before –”

“If you shower you’ll destroy evidence. Just put your shoes on and come with me.”

She looks up, engaging Sherlock in a staring contest that is more war than anything else, a battle to see who issues commands and who obeys. It takes only a short amount of time for her gaze to flicker to the side in defeat. Sherlock is not immune to the frustrated heave of her chest under the t-shirt she slept in, or by the absence of a bra as made clear by the little pebbles of her nipples present under the soft cotton. Turning slowly, Molly makes her way back into the bedroom, pushing the door shut behind her.

Sherlock exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“You guys are going to make adorable babies,” Erasmus sighs, appearing a bit misty eyed. “I can’t wait to be an uncle.”

Huffing at the absurdity of his brother's far too sentimental opinion, Sherlock stomps into the narrow kitchen to scrounge up something for Molly to eat. It isn’t until a bagel pops out of the toaster that he realizes exactly how far his instincts are taking him and he can’t help but feel resentment burning in his gut. Not for Molly but for himself, for an aspect of his biology that he can control as well as he does the winds. It doesn’t stop him from preparing the meager meal and is mostly forgotten when she emerges from his bedroom in fresh, though wrinkled, clothing and her long hair in a neat braid. Taking a seat on a flimsy stool set at the galley kitchen’s little bar, Molly accepts his efforts to provide and begins nibbling the cream cheese slathered bagel. 

He can’t help but be proud when she eats every bite despite the pain in her jaw and says, with no small amount of adoration in her eyes and voice and smile, “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

Ignoring Erasmus, which is much easier to do than usual as for once he’s being quiet, Sherlock reaches out to smooth a hand down the back of her head. “There’s no need,” he murmurs, knowing it to be true.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has supported this story; I know it's not an easy or particularly enjoyable read.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Medical exam, discussion of abuse s, a character making a rape "joke." (Which I do not condone or support, before anyone accuses or flames me.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing copyrighted, protected, or good. Just the writing and OCs.

The exam takes nearly two hours and Molly is absolutely wrecked by the end of it. Her jaw is carefully but quite painfully put back into place; her eardrum is bruised and swollen, as well as her ear canal being badly irritated; she receives stitches for an older laceration hidden by her hair, the doctor quietly furious that it has been nearly week since the wound was received and had been left untreated (“It’s alright,” Molly tries to sooth the older woman, “I’ve had worse, really.” It doesn’t work, only serving to further upset Dr. Lee), resulting in the deep wound being painfully cleaned out before the stitching takes place; her cheekbone has a hairline fracture and there’s nothing that can be done aside from allowing time to heal it; and, of course, there is The Conversation. 

“See this?” Dr. Lee says, pointing to an x-ray of Molly’s torso. “See these shadows? Calcium deposits where your bones have healed. One, two, three, four, five, six; six different, separate places where your ribs have been broken, or badly dislocated resulting in bones chipping. How many times has your arm been broken? A lot, I can see it from this x-ray. Three, maybe four? Your collarbone is still healing from a fracture, just here. Your hands –” another x-ray is shoved onto the lighted board, illuminating another point of shame – “your fingers were deliberately broken. None of this was an accident, I can see that. I’m not angry or disappointed with you, Molly, but I’m scared and worried. Tell me what’s going on at home.”

“Nothing,” she whispers, hiding her eyes under the length of her fringe.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to protect anyone that hurts you. What you tell me never has to leave this room if you don’t want to it, okay? But you need to tell someone.”

Deep breaths that hurt to take, shivering that Molly couldn’t control. “My mum had an accident when I was nine,” she shakily explains. “She was thrown from our car and suffered a TBI, and… and she… she can’t help it or control it. If she were herself, she’d never do any of this.”

Up and down, up and down; Dr. Lee nods like a bobble head. “Traumatic brain injuries can completely change a person, so I believe you, Molly. I’m sure she would never have dreamed of hurting you before her injury. I understand that she’s sick and not able to control herself. I really do. But her illness is hurting you so badly that I’m worried if you return home that one day something very tragic will happen.” Code for murder, Molly figured. It’s only ever been a matter of time, and how sad is it that she’d long ago accepted that if she died young it would be at the hands of her mother? 

“My… my Alpha took me away,” she admits, daring to look up. “I’m staying with him right now.”

“Good.” There is genuine relief in Dr. Lee’s eyes. “That’s really good, Molly.”

The pelvic exam is probably the worst part, feeling like she’s put on display and wanting to be anywhere else, even dead. At least the doctor is gentle, and she tells Molly everything she’s going to do beforehand, so Molly knows exactly what’s happening and what it’s for and the reasons it’s being done. That helps, gives her something to focus on. The silence is more difficult to handle, leaving Molly too much time to think on her humiliating position and the truths being laid out for a stranger to see.

“I’m thinking about going into medicine,” she blurts out.

“I think you’d make an excellent doctor, Molly. Are you leaning towards a specific field? You’re going to feel a pinch, I’m taking a biopsy now. One, two, three – and that part is over. Good job.”

“Um,” she squeaks, trying hard not to cry or jump because that bloody hurt, “I – I’m not sure. Pathology, maybe, but there’s a lot of different branches, so I dunno…” 

“One of my best friends is a forensic pathologist; last year he helped put a serial killer in prison. Okay, we’re all done. Here are some napkins to clean up with, and you can sit up.” At least there was no sexual assault to add to Molly’s shame, and she can see the thankfulness in Dr. Lee’s kind eyes for this small mercy. After everything is finished she’s given a shot in the bum for pain, which burns like wildfire going in and is quick to make her weak, sloppy, and hardly able to walk. A nurse and Dr. Lee help her dress. The doctor herself half carries Molly to the waiting room, where an agitated Sherlock is waiting. His hair is badly mussed, as though he’s been raking his fingers through it, and the few other patients waiting seem to be giving him a wide berth as he paces. 

“Hilo,” Molly greets, hand flopping on her wrist in what she’d meant to be a wave. “I can’t feel my face anymore. I’m hungry. It’s hot in here.”

“We gave her something for the pain,” Dr. Lee explains, shifting her grip as Molly loses her balance and nearly slides to the floor. “Oof! You okay there, sweetie?”

“You’re pretty.” Patting Dr. Lee’s silky black hair, Molly gives her a sweet smile. “And you smell good. Doesn’t she smell good, Sherlock? This is Sherlock. He’s my Alpha. He smells better than you. Don’t feel bad, he smells better than everyone.” Pitching forward, Molly attempts to stagger the short distance between herself and Sherlock. Considering it feels as though her legs are made of rubber bouncy balls, it doesn’t go so well; thankfully Sherlock catches her, the wiry strength in his gangly limbs keeping her upright. 

In careful undertones, they discuss Molly’s aftercare while the subject of their conversation drifts on a cotton wool cloud of narcotics somewhere above their heads. She thinks the conversation turns, briefly, to her home situation; certainly her Alpha’s voice becomes a deeper rumble than she’s ever heard from him as he vows “She won’t be going back to there, never again.”

He’s so good, muses Molly, petting his chest. Two days they’ve known each other, and he’s already rescued her, taken her to find safety away from her mother. Turning her face into his chest she breathes deeply of his scent, seeking the salt of sweat and the still changing musk of a male not yet fully grown into manhood. Her jaw throbs in a dull, distant way, warning her to turn her face to the side and be more mindful of her jaw, but she keeps her nose where it’s at and allows her eyes to shut.

She must have fallen asleep, as she wakes in the passenger seat of Sherlock’s car. He’s leaning over her, close and closer still before the world shifts as Molly is tumbled back. Laughter wells in her throat and spills out, her hazy eyes taking in the way his eyes change colors in the morning light. “Stay here,” he orders, resting a hand on her stomach for just a moment. “I’ve got to go in the chemists.” 

“Mmhmm,” she hums, only just realizing that he inclined her seat so she could lie back. His thumb moves over the cotton covering her stomach, a warm motion, and Molly enjoys it in the seconds before she wraps herself in the warm darkness and returns to sleep. 

She dreams of a cloud that grows hands and reaches down to brush hair from her face, thunderous voice sighing, “Poor kid looks like she got hit by a train.” Then it begins to snow and her skin becomes ice, but her skin is burning and aching so she welcomes the cold as one would an old friend. Pat joins her, a positively giant bowl of ice cream in his hands, but he’s only brought one spoon and refuses to share.

“You suck gimmie ice cream,” she grumbles, and pine trees take up a chorus of laughter at her expense. 

 

\----X----

 

Waking is quite possibly the most difficult thing Molly’s ever been forced to endure, as the process is as strenuous as digging herself out of a well-packed grave with paving stones placed atop it. Somehow she manages to force dry, crusty eyes open to confront the weak sunlight of a winter sunset spilling through gauzy white curtains. The window is rather small and quite old fashioned, as are the walls, and it’s nowhere she recognizes. There’s panic, but it’s only a small amount, as the entire place smells of wood smoke and something half-wild and young. It takes a moment to place it as Sherlock, but then she does and limbs that were attempting to grow rigid return to the gelatinous state previous employed. 

Out of her line of vision there is a long, shrill squeaking of wood on wood. Realizing she is lying on her stomach does much to aid the movements of her head and neck, allowing Molly to tip her chin down and peer across the room. Sherlock is rising from an ancient looking rocking chair that sits in front of a hearth that is glowing and crackling with a warm blaze. Books are piled around him.

“Where are we?” she asks hoarsely, sounding more like Uncle Craig (who always has a lit cigarette in his mouth) than a fifteen year old girl. 

Sherlock’s answer is concise, “My parents’ home,” spoken as he’s crossing the space between the chair and his bed. The soft mattress dips as his weight settles on the edge of it, rolling Molly towards him so her hip presses against his thigh. He’s watching her with an expression that’s so well governed she has no hope of guessing what he’s thinking, so she watches his hand lift and slowly – very slowly – reach towards her. His fingers are exquisitely long and well-shaped, which is rather a strange realization to have as she’s never really thought about the shape of boy’s fingers before now. 

Carefully his palm molds over the curve of her hip bone, fingers pressing up until they’re under the hem of her shirt and resting on bare skin. Molly thinks his breathing changes, becomes quicker, shallower, maybe. Neither of them move or speak or dare to do anything but carefully watch each other. Sherlock’s throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing before his gaze lifts and turns away, his cheeks and neck flushing… though he doesn’t withdrawal his hand. 

“How’d we get here?” 

“I drove us.”

“I don’t even remember leaving the clinic…”

A smile touches his mouth, and Sherlock looks down at Molly with such incredible fondness that her heart seizes in her chest. “No surprise. You were extremely drugged.”

A groan rises up from the depths of her stomach, forcing its way out in much the same way she forces her limbs to move. She aches all over, probably from being in one position for too long. It’s a bit awkward, rolling onto her back when Sherlock’s light weight is sagging the mattress in the opposite direction but Molly manages it. Stretching her arms above her head, straining the muscles in her legs and feet until they burn, she yawns hugely before falling limp once again.

They both pretend not to realize that Sherlock’s hand is now on her stomach, spread out on thin fabric that’s warm from her body. It’s only in looking down her body, past the swell of her small breasts to the slight rise of her stomach where his hand is half under the thin fabric, that she realizes she’s wearing pajamas. Pajamas she certainly wasn’t wearing earlier. The blush hits with such force that she swears the bedding must be on fire. 

“I didn’t undress you,” Sherlock announces, a sarcastic sort of smile on his mouth. It’s at odds with his eyes, eyes grown dark and narrow and are focused on Molly in the way a starved predator would look at weak prey. “Mum thought it would be… improper.”

“What are you, a psychic?” It’s only partially a tease. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly, I’m merely observant: from your expression when you saw your clothing I saw you were surprised, and surmised your thoughts based on the situation. It’s a simple process of deduction.”

“Deduction?” she repeats, awed and baffled by the staggering intelligence of the mere boy in front of her. “That’s… wow.”

“Good wow or bad wow?” inquires Sherlock, whose mouth has grown tensed at the thought of rejection. Molly imagines his childhood couldn’t have been easy, not if he was ‘deducing’ classmates and teachers. 

“Good wow; really good wow. I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?” he parrots, eyebrows crawling nearly up to his hairline.

“Yeah, I’m impressed. You’re impressive.” Molly thinks, oh boy, he’s going to kiss me again, and her stomach swoops as though she’s on a rollercoaster. There’s firelight in his hair which turns the curls into a dark halo; her fingers itch to touch them. She leans up on an elbow, turns her chin up and does her very best to ignore how swollen and ugly her face feels, because Sherlock’s looking at her like she’s precious and beautiful and she doesn’t think anyone has ever looked at her like this before – she wants to savor it – and his fingers move on the flesh of her stomach, a caress that makes her whimper and flinch and – 

The door flies open and Sherlock leaps from the bed as though he’s a cat that’s been doused in ice water. 

“I thought I heard voices! Is Molly awake, then?” A woman bustles into the room, flicking a light switch to send electricity to an overhead fixture. Molly blinks several times, eyes watering from the sudden brightness when before the room had been so nice and gently lit by firelight. “Oh good, you are up. Poor thing, how’s your face feeling?” In a flash she’s by the bedside, taking the place her son only just vacated to brush her hand through Molly’s hair, looking her over with obvious worry.

There’s no one else this could be but Sherlock’s mother. There’s a likeness to them, the same startling eyes and angular beauty, though Mrs. Holmes’ looks are more feminine than her son’s. Her hair is such a pale blonde that it seems to be soft gilt, pulled up with a careless sort of elegance that Molly immediately envies. Her hands are cool and infinitely gentle, and she smells of cooking herbs, sweet perfume, and something Molly can only describe as kindness. 

“It hurts,” she admits, wincing when Mrs. Holmes gently touches her cheekbone. 

“I’m sure it does, sweetheart. Sherlock, refill the cold compress with ice, please. Her swelling is worse than this afternoon.”

Wordlessly Sherlock picks up the rubber bag to obey, sparing Molly a short look from behind his mother that makes her blush flare back up again. 

“Do you feel like coming down to dinner or would you like a tray in bed? You really do need to get something on your stomach, especially before you take your medicine.”

“Oh, I – no, please don’t go to any trouble – I’ll come down, if that’s alright.” 

Mrs. Holmes smile is beatific. “You’re no trouble at all, Molly; you’re one of the family now, aren’t you? Our Sherlock’s Omega… I tell you we couldn’t be happier he’s found you. And at such a young age! It’s really a blessing, especially considering your situation – well, now, if he hadn’t fetched you Will and I would have done, though it might have gone a messier route. Probably best this way. Now then, I’ve lain out a dressing gown and slippers, you slip these on and I’ll help you downstairs.”

“I – I can manage on my own, really –” Genuinely baffled and uncomfortable with such fussing, Molly has no idea how to respond to it. She’s a fish out of water, no doubt about it, but it still makes something inside her grow soft and warm. Mrs. Holmes is very… very motherly, and it’s both unexpected and desperately missed. Her aunts have only ever been allowed so much leeway in her life, especially after the accident and Mum’s changes… and there was only so much Molly could admit to, too frightened by her mother’s threats to tell her family precisely how bad it was becoming. The adults had remained mostly blinded, while the children had known to the last one, all of doing their best to keep Molly away from home as much as possible. 

“Sweetheart, if you can walk a straight line after the shot you were given, I’ll eat my hat.” Giving Molly a wry smile, Mrs. Holmes pats her back in a comforting sort of way before helping her into the dressing gown. It’s old and warm, worn into a state of snuggly softness by the years, and it smells of Mrs. Holmes’ perfume and lavender soap. Molly is content to wrap it around herself, feeling quite warm and safe, a feeling so unusual that tears prick the corners of her eyes. She’s so used to having fear turning her stomach sour, as even when she’s away from home her mind is never far from returning home, but the combination of Sherlock and his mother’s attention works miracles. 

Mrs. Holmes was correct in assuming Molly couldn’t walk a straight line on her own, and even with help she bangs off the wall a few times. Her limbs are weak and wobbly, and there’s a strange thickness in her mind that prevents quick thoughts or cleverness. With help she makes it down the narrow staircase to the ground floor, where she’s swept into a rustic kitchen brimming with delicious scents, sounds, and men. Four pairs of eyes are turned to Molly and four mouths grow silent, simply watching as Mrs. Holmes takes her to the long table and sits her down on the bench seat.

Molly adjusts the robe, pulling it more tightly around herself and flushing, as it’s incredibly awkward to be in a room full of strangers (and Sherlock, who exists in the same realm of unknowing as Schrodinger’s cat in the sense that he both is and is not a stranger), nearly all of them males, while in her pajamas. It’s Sherlock who breaks the awkward silence, offering her the compress.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding the many pairs of watching eyes. 

“Keep that on until it’s time to eat,” orders Mrs. Holmes, tapping the bag of ice with an imperious finger. “Your poor little face is at least twice the size it should be. Boys, keep Molly company while I finish up.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes a seat beside her. “Shall I juggle?” he drawls, daring to snag tomatoes from the table top. His father – as there’s no doubt that he’s Sherlock’s father – casually whacks his son in the head with a folded newspaper. “Really, Dad?”

“Last time you got meatloaf stuck on the ceiling,” the brother from this morning – Erasmus, wasn’t it? – points out.

“I think it’s still up there.” As one they look up, searching the ceiling for the meatloaf. With her throbbing face half covered by the compress, Molly fails in holding back laughter. 

Mr. Holmes settles an amused smile on her. “Dinners are always interesting.”

“After dinner we’ll show you naked baby photos of Sherlock,” Erasmus announces with a positively devilish grin. The nameless brother rolls his eyes in an extravagant sort of way, propping his chin on his hand and appearing bored to the point of tears. 

“We will not.” Despite an attempt to sound menacing, Sherlock’s voice cracks. This provokes cackles of amusement from Erasmus, who flat out points and laughs.

“Forgive the juveniles, Miss Hooper, it’s not often they’re allowed in public.” Undoubtedly the eldest, the man in question stares at Molly in such a way that she’s positive he’s digging ever secret she’s got out of her mind. When he offers his hand in greeting it’s soft and dry, but his grip is loose and fleeting. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh, um, hi. I’m Molly.” She gives a wave, an awkward little thing that dies an early death.

Erasmus mimics his brother’s haughty expression, nose just a bit in the air as he offers his hand in a way that suggests he’s wary of something foul being smeared on it. “Erasmus Holmes, Miss Hooper, we’re ever so… pleased… to have you in our home. Come, let us pretend we’re having tea at the palace and have no idea who you are.” 

Molly has to bite her tongue – hard – to keep from snickering. 

“Erasmus,” Mr. Holmes mildly warns, but with a quirk to his mouth that suggests he’s as amused as anyone else. 

It’s very easy to be in Sherlock’s home, to listen to his brother’s bickering and his parents referring, to be banned from helping lay out the dinner table and having Mrs. Holmes hover like a mother hen. She brings Molly a large glass of milk and two pills, an antibiotic and painkiller (which she’s thankful for, as by now her heartbeat resounds in her cheek and temple and ear with the force of a kettle drum), and she swallows them both before digging into dinner. Dinner is stew and flaky bread and steamed veggies, all items that are relatively easy for her to eat even with her jaw having shocking little range of motion. She’s quiet, choosing to listen and soak in the conversation around her, awed as it turns from Mr. Holmes’ half-finished project of cleaning the garden shed out to advancements in DNA testing that Molly, as drugged and tired as she is, has a hard time following. On another day she would have been in the thick of it, asking questions and making mental notes, starving for knowledge; but tonight, with the world all fuzzy and golden from the linger effects of the shot and the painkiller, she simply lets it roll off her as water does on duck feathers.

It’s even easier to slip into a state that’s like being piled in a bed of loose feathers, all soft and downy, head lolling on her neck.

“No resistance whatsoever to even mild narcotics,” says Mycroft, sounding rather judgmental.

“Shove off,” Sherlock snaps, and then Molly’s nose is full of the scent of him. Her eyelids are so incredibly heavy but she manages to open them, taking in the blurry figures of the Holmes family in a series of blinks, not truly registering that she’s leaned so far to the side that she’s half in Sherlock’s lap. 

“We’d better get her up to bed, she’s already in another world.”

“She can sleep in my room again.” To Molly’s mind, Sherlock’s words sound more like a demand than a suggestion. “I’ll sleep on the lie-low if I get tired.”

“How come I never got to keep girls in my bed when I was his age?” 

“You could have had as many girls as you liked in your room, so long as you weren’t with them.” 

“Sherlock really is your favorite, isn’t he?”

“He’s not staying in there with her, Ras, and I love all my boys just the same.”

“She’s drugged, Mother; what could we possibly do when she can’t even lift her own head?”

“Do you even have a penis? Ow! Mum, Jesus, I was joking!” 

“That’s not a joke, Anthony Erasmus.”

“Oh, come on –”

“Don’t sass your mother.”

“Yeah, Ras, don’t sass Mum.”

“Sherlock, your Omega is dribbling on herself. Please take it somewhere else.” A shuffle, the sense of movement, and finally a loud yelp. “Sherlock! Mother, are you just going to let him –”

“Sherlock, sweetheart, let your brother go. And Mycroft, don’t call Molly an ‘it.’ She’s a person and, more importantly, she’s a part of our family now.”

The last thing Molly remembers is something damp and soft on her forehead, a kiss, maybe; a hand in her hair, stroking; and Sherlock’s voice, though what he says is lost into the darkness of oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless MizJoely for all the many things she does, chief among them putting up with my neurotic ramblings and fears regarding my writing as well as betaing. And, you knowing, being a kickaass writer. Thanks to everyone that leaves reviews and takes the time to follow this story. I adore you all! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: discussion of abuse
> 
> Disclaimer: Sometimes I'm awed by all the shit I don't own.

The three Holmes brothers as children were, on the very best of days, precocious; the worst involved terms like sociopaths and sanitariums. The world as a whole regards genius as something best kept under glass, or safely locked away in stories other people tell. History looks at a brilliant eccentric with a sort of hopeless fondness, such as a family might possess for an odd but endearing uncle that likes to spend his leisure time in well tailored dresses and elaborate haberdashery; at least there are quite a lot of amusing stories to tell at parties, and there's a certain sort of pride in having someone genuinely different in one's life, given how so many work so terribly hard to be as normal as possible. When the unconventional behavior is in the present moment, and unapologetic for being perceived as abnormal, people tend to take a less kind view.

Erasmus considers himself to be the luckiest of the three. By virtue of being the eldest, Mycroft took on the role that might best be titled Absolute Grand Supreme Overlord of Micromanagement (as Erasmus and Sherlock made a great show of announcing every time their elder brother come into a room, often with Erasmus trumpeting a fanfare… at least until Mum 'accidently' threw his bugle in the drive and proceeded to 'accidently' drive over it). Sherlock was treated with a sort of idolatry only the baby of a family will ever receive, getting away with far more than his preceding siblings would have ever dared attempt; when a punishment was dealt out, more so as he become older and their parents fully realized the harm they were doing with their leniency, Mycroft or Erasmus would take the blame and punishment to protect the curly haired monster. Erasmus did so less and less as the years passed, but Mycroft has never able to see precisely how his own brand of indulgence is ruining little Sherlock.

Middle children have their own predispositioned psychological quirks and character flaws: the need to be different, to stand out and be noticed being the most relevant for Erasmus. He recognizes this in himself and feels it to be a perfectly acceptable characteristic, so long as it isn't allowed to consume him. It's led him to be the closest one of the three ever came to conformity when in school; to make friends, play stupid games, read fantasy novels, and buy dirty magazines and hide them under his mattress; he likes learning about people from their own words and thoughts, rather than simply deducing them and using the knowledge to keep a gap between himself and the Others; he is comfortable in nearly any social situation and can make friends with very nearly everyone he meets, which absolutely makes him the black sheep.

All of this has, in one way or another, persistently pushed him into the one continuing belief and corresponding actions, and it is this: Nicholas Brandon Mycroft Holmes is the worst influence in the world on their little brother, and if left unchecked will be his absolute ruin.

In the foyer of the Diogenes' Club, Erasmus pushes his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket while rocking back and forth on his heels. He also hums, quite loudly, the guitar riff for Smoke on the Water. It earns him looks of outrage, shock, and scolding from the elderly gentlemen enjoying their afternoon tea and finger sandwiches from the trolly. Beaming cheekily, he begins muttering the lyrics while rolling back even harder on his heels in an effort to make his boots squeak as loudly as possible on the marble floor.

Footmen in starched uniforms and booties over their shoes arrive to forcibly drag him away. He's half tempted to knock them out – it'd be so bloody easy – but they're only doing their job. Though the one on the right is rougher than he needs to be (likes causing pain, wants to cause more, won't be long 'til he does more than roughs someone up in a pub fight), the other seems incredibly apologetic about the while thing. Without ceremony he's shoved into the audience room, the one space in all the club house where members and their guests may indulge in conversation.

Waiting for him is Mycroft, who's scowling quite bitterly from the onset. "You must be out of your mind," he announces once the footmen have left them in the privacy contained by closed doors.

"Hello, Mikey."

"You can't possible be serious about any of this, can you? This will ruin him, Erasmus, utterly ruin him. I won't have it."

Dropping into a deep leather armchair, Erasmus stretches his long legs out (purposely crowding into Mycroft's space) before crossing his ankles and slouching in a way he knows drives his brother perfectly mad. "That's almost precisely what you said when Sherlock decided to go for criminal psychology and chemistry instead of microbiology or law."

"And as then, I am in the right. Molly Hooper is dangerous."

"Jesus, Mycroft, what's she going to do, be his friend? Take his precious virginity? Damn, you're right, that's bloody evil." Scathing boils up his throat and grows blisters of resentment on his tongue.

"Sherlock is meant for bigger and more important things than a skinny little girl that will force him to conform. All his potential, his brilliance, utterly wasted. He will resent her and it will end badly, surely you can see this."

"Bondmates don't 'end badly' unless someone tries to get in between them. What's wrong with Sherlock having met his literal perfect match? They'll support each other, no matter what; I've been around Molly more than you have, she's enamored with Sherlock just as he is, not an idea of what he could be." Snorting, Mycroft waves a hand in the air. "What, you don't believe me?"

"She's a fifteen year old child, Erasmas. How about when she's twenty-five, thirty-five? When her biological clock begins ticking more and more loudly, when her friends and cousins have settled down to have children and live shallow, meaningless little lives? What happens to Sherlock then?"

For a moment Erasmus holds his tongue, digging his teeth into the thick muscle to keep silent. The pain does nothing to stem his frustration, doesn't dim years of resentment, and quite without meaning to release it, he begins to speak. His words are quick and staccato, sharp and furious. "My God, Mycroft, are you truly so terrified of being alone that you'd ruin our brother's one chance of happiness so you have someone in the world as lonely as you are?"

"What utter –"

"You can lie to everyone else, Mum and Dad and even Sherlock, but you know you can't lie to me. Don't even try. Your relationship with Dave is going to end soon, you can see the signs already. You're too cold, too distant, too busy with your work and too involved with matters you can't share with him without risking CIA or Russian hit squads or someone else taking him out for knowing too much. What's worse is that he bores you – everyone bores you – and the only thing crueler than this is that you desperately want to be one of them; but you're too afraid of rejection to step outside of your cold little world to risk having a life beyond political manipulation and short lived relationships you enter only because it's dreadfully lonely to come home to an empty bed night after night. The only true comfort you have is in knowing, without a doubt, that you are not the only man in the world to feel these feelings have these thoughts, that you're not the only one that is somehow apart from the humanity spawning all around us like salmon in a stream. There's Sherlock, who's just as scared and lonely and closed off as you are, because you've spent his entire life shaping and molding him into your perfect companion. And he's too young, too blinded by a little brother's awe, to see that you do him far more harm than good." His words ring and echo off the wood and plaster and window glass, lingering even after he's finally fallen silent. Chests heaving, hands clenched, mottled with humiliation and rage and fear, two brothers stare each other down from across a divide that will never again be breached.

When Mycroft speaks, it's in such a way that his jaw never unclenches and his lips barely move. "What do you require, dear brother?"

From an inside pocket of his jacket, Erasmus produces the list he's drawn up. Carefully, without breaking Mycroft's gaze, he leans forward and passes possession of it off. "I've done what I can, but there are arrangements to be made that only you can see done."

Both of them are raw, open wounds, and there are no more words to be spoken. Erasmus knows guilt will see that the arrangements are made, as well as he knows that the eventual reprisal of his daring to speak the truths long agreed to be kept hidden will be brutal. In the end, they both do what they believe to be best for Sherlock, the little boy that remains eternally oblivious to the war being waged over his soul.

While exiting the Diogenes' Club he whistles. Loudly.

-X-

"Good morning, Molly. How are you feeling today?" Mrs. Holmes greets Molly by running a hand over her hair and pressing a light kiss to her forehead, as though she's a favored niece that's spent a lifetime coming in and out of their home. Molly's not sure what to make of it, how to react to such immediate acceptance and care from people who amount to strangers. Her smile is small, her manner awkward and hesitant as she pulls the oversized dressing gown a bit tighter around her thin frame.

"Good morning. Um, well, I'm feeling better. Groggy." She doesn't admit how her face pounds with each pulse of her heart, how it feels hot and tight; she doesn't explain that there's a dull sort of distance to sounds when they're picked up by her left ear, making everything seem rather distant and unreal. What would complaints do but worry Mr. and Mrs. Holmes? There's nothing they can do to help, and she'd rather not have another painkiller forced on her quite yet. Later, but only if the pain becomes too much, if there's no way to solider on.

"Of course you are, those pills sent you into orbit. Take a seat and I'll make you some breakfast. How do you like your eggs?"

Molly shrugs and promptly winces, because it makes her head swim funnily. "However, I'm not picky. You don't have to cook for me, Mrs. Holmes, really."

"Of I course I don't," she promptly agrees, flashing a smile over her shoulder as sets a burner alight. "But I want to."

Mr. Holmes leaves the table and his game of Mahjong to fetch the compress from the freezer. He hands it over with a smile, patting her shoulder in a comforting manner before resuming his seat. "It'll help with the pain," he advises lowly enough to keep his wife from hearing. There's a knowing sort of expression in his eyes, which makes it clear that he wasn't at all fooled by her earlier she presses it to her cheek, thankful for the burst of painful-pleasure that comes with it. He returns to his game, pondering the tiles even as he resumes speaking. "Do you enjoy school, Molly?"

Her answer is immediate. "Oh yes, very much. Well, I don't like all the teachers – Sister Bertha is really…" she pauses, searching for a diplomatic term. "She doesn't really like teaching. She gets angry if we ask questions or if she thinks we're not paying attention. But I like learning. I, um, well – I guess I'm a geek." With a shrug she adverts her eyes, unable to quell a flush.

"Taking enjoyment in learning is nothing to be ashamed of," Mrs. Holmes proclaims over the sound of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet.

Soon the leading questions and timid answers morph into a conversation that continues through Molly's slow and pained devouring of her breakfast, the addition of Mrs. Holmes, and two more games of Mahjong. She tells them about her family, all her cousins and especially Pat, how there are three whole streets of Hoopers and how all they all go to the same schools and church and have a massive Sunday luncheon once a month. The topic of her parents are not skated around so much as they are determined ignored, none of the involved parties feeling now is the right time to enter such a thorny issue. Instead the conversation flows to future plans (medical school), the time off from school Molly is being forced to take off ("I really don't think I should be missing for something as minor as this," she admits, not catching the profound exchange of thoughts being shared by the married couple as she categorizes her attack and escape as minor), and Sherlock.

"He was born early," Mrs. Holmes confides, a sweet smile curling her mouth as she recalls the birth of her youngest child. "Well, you know how Sherlock is. Once he's set his mind to something there's no changing it, is there? Had him in the back of a taxi; the poor driver cried as loudly as any of us."

"Hospital had to check him in as well, as he fainted dead soon as we parked and he stepped out. 'She's had a baby!' he shouted, then collapsed. Whacked his head so hard he had to get seventeen stitches, I think it was. Poor fellow was traumatized, never saw anything like that in his rear view before." Chuckling, Mr. Holmes stares off, as though repeating the memory in the privacy of his mind.

By the time two hours have passed Molly can feel exhaustion pulling at her, and she's in more pain than she knows how to deal with. Her stitches throb, her cheekbone feels as though it's on fire, her jaw aches dully, and it feels as though someone has jabbed her in the ear with a knife. On top of this all she's shaky, a side effect of the painkillers, she's sure. Still, she's quite determined to take a hot shower and put on clean clothes. A bath would have been preferable, but Mrs. Holmes seemed worried she'd fall asleep in the bathtub – which is actually a completely valid point, Molly must admit – and there's no use in arguing.

Technically she's not supposed to get her stitches wet, but needs must when it comes to the matter of unclean hair. Unfortunately it only makes the site hurt worse, and when Molly emerges in wreathes of sweet smelling steam there's no more being strong and hoping Aspirin will dull it to acceptable levels. Instead she accepts the narcotic Mrs. Holmes hands over with a glass of water, knocking it back and wishing its effect was immediate.

In the waiting, Mrs. Holmes sits her down on an ottoman and begins brushing out Molly's long, wet hair. "I always fancied having a daughter," she admits, careful with any knots or tangles she encounters. "Not that I don't love my boys, I do; I wouldn't trade one of them for a dozen girls. Well, at least there's you now, isn't there? I'm sure we'll soon be good friends."

"I'd like that," offers Molly with an almost raw amount of honest. Soon she's heavy and drowsy, and by now her hair has been blown dry and brushed once again, and finally pulled back into a comfortable braid.

"Back to bed," Mrs. Holmes quietly orders, guiding Molly to her feet and towards the staircase. She takes the time to tuck Molly in like she's a little girl, brushing wisps of hair off her forehead and even kissing her temple before leaving the room. Molly thinks if she's wasn't drugged into a state of numbness she'd cry. Instead she passes out and dreams of her forehead against the cold glass of a car window, lolling weakly, and the sound of her mother's voice; "Look at our sweet angels, Ned, they're both asleep… aren't they precious?"

Mummy sings along with the radio and Molly falls further into the dark void of unconsciousness, unquestionably certain that there is no harm on earth that could come to her or little Eddie while their parents are near.

-X-

Sherlock feels it's an unfair tactic, but his parents bribe him into attending classes and finishing wretchedly boring schoolwork by dangling time with Molly in front of him like he's a rabbit being tempted into a garden. What's most frustrating is that he bloody well obeys and can't even blame this on Alpha instinct, because he wants to talk with her and see her smile and enjoy the calm that comes from their scents intermingling. Instinct or not instinct he'd be drawn to Molly Hooper, which shouldn't be more terrifying and less soothing than it actually is. Well, if he's fallen victim to the weakness of emotions and chemical intoxication, at least it's because of more than the urge to rut.

Instead of returning to his dorm, Sherlock leaves his final class at a brisk walk (because he refuses to run) to catch a train back home. It's a ride he normally wouldn't take during the week but if he were locked up with his parents day and night, he'd go bloody mad. Poor Molly must be desperate for some company. The commute is boring and uneventful but provides ample time to finish much of his work, scripting a fifteen page essay and saving it in his mind until he can type it up. It's a rather short walk from the station to home, fifteen minutes on a nice day, but the clouds are bruised gray and purple and open up moments after he sets out. Between the icy rain and frigid wind, Sherlock fears he's going to get frostbite and loose his extremities.

Banging in the front door seven minutes after breaking into a run, he begins shedding sopping layers. A lake begins to form around him. "Mum!" he shouts, though his voice is muffle by the unwieldy cling of his jumper, which fights to suffocate him rather than be pulled over his head and off his arms. "Towel! Several, preferably!"

After a few moments of struggle, his mum helps tug the damn thing off, allowing him to take in a glorious gasp of air. He's smacked with the scent of Molly – crisp apples and wood smoke and soft girl – as well as unfamiliar Alpha and Beta. Before he can stop it there's a snarl welling out of his throat and curling his lips off teeth – too sharp and cruel to be a 'normal' human's – but all the air is taken out of him when he sees Molly standing in front of him, his jumper dangling from her hands. It's ridiculous, it really is, but his brain is quick announce that his Omega just helped in the task of stripping him, and it has the effect of turning the outside world off. Sherlock's perception narrows to he and Molly, the pounding of his heart and the sound of her breathing, her smell and skin and the smile on her mouth.

"Uh… hi," he breathes, staring.

"Hi," she repeats, unable to suppress a wide smile.

"Disgusting," grumbles a cheerful voice, breaking the moment. Looking up, Sherlock finds Pat Hooper and an older Alpha male, Bonded by the scent of him, with the same ruddy complexion and blunt features of the younger. Undoubtedly this is Pat's father. Nose that's been broken several times and scarred knuckles, lines where tape has been removed on his fingers: a boxer, then. His age and family indicates he mostly likely doesn't travel the circuit but he still practices, mostly likely as a coach or is a manager or owner of a boxing gym. Sherlock might have been interested if every protective instinct in his Alpha male brain hadn't gone into overdrive. It takes a supreme force of will to keep from hustling Molly into another room.

"We weren't expecting you this early!" his mother appears with a basket for his wet clothes and towels over her arm, tossing one to the floor to begin soaking up the rain Sherlock brought in. "Why did you phone? Daddy would have picked you up, no sense in being out in this. Oh, Sherlock, you're going to be sick, mark my words. Go change out of the rest of those wet things – and don't leave them in the floor!"

He doesn't want to leave Molly with her uncle, a grown man that allowed a young girl to be hurt. But he also doesn't want to cause a scene, not when he sees how worried she's suddenly become. If it were anyone else he'd barrel on, deducing the uncle to rage or tears, calling him out on his horrid acts of leniency; he is not anyone else, he's Molly's blood, and she doesn't want any more fighting. So Sherlock, uncharacteristically silent, nods before draping a towel over his head and squishing to the staircase.

Everything in his room smells of his Omega, especially the bedsheets and pillows, overlaid so prettily on his own scent that as Sherlock strips, dries, and changes into warm clothes, his eyelids become heavy and he develops the urge to bury his nose in a pillow. Even better would be to bury his nose in Molly's neck, so soft and warm, to wrap her in his arms and be held in hers; to be comforted by shared body warmth, the rhythm of her breathing and heartbeat, the involuntary movements of her muscles; to fall asleep that way, tangled together, and to wake with moonlight washing away even his sharp edges and fears, making him brave enough to scatter kisses over every bit of her bruises. Maybe she would sigh or whisper his name, or no, she'd say his name on a soft exhale and push her fingers into his hair. He'd kiss her mouth and she'd sigh again, and moan, and hold him closer; like their first meeting in the alley he'd push his hand under her shirt but this time to feel her stomach, moving with each shallow breath, but there'd be no interruption. But he's not mindless, of course not, so Sherlock would ask, "Molly, may I…?" Blushing would be inevitable, of course, but she'd be flushed too so it wouldn't matter. When she nodded he'd exhale, shakily, and run his hand slowly upwards, taking care to feel the notches of her ribs under her skin, to watch her eyes and mouth and the tiny muscles that provide involuntary tells.

He imagines her not stopping him, of clenching her jaw shut to keep silent and her eyes falling shut as he palmed her breast, brushed his thumb over her nipple –

"You have to come down and be sociable," his father announces while the door to Sherlock's room bangs open. Rudely ripped from his fantasy Sherlock emits a noise of outrage that is not, despite what Mycroft and Erasmus have had to say when hearing similar noises, a squawk. He's standing in front of his wardrobe with a long sleeved shirt in his hands and heavy lounge trousers on; quickly he drops his arms so the fabric he holds covers his groin.

"Doesn't anyone in this house ever knock!?" he demands, colossally embarrassed.

"Molly does, but don't worry, we'll soon have her broken of those silly habits. I won't have manners in this house, not so long as you're living under my roof." Clearly William is attempting to goad his son, and there's a knowing – and amused – glint in his eyes that Sherlock doesn't like. "You're taking your time, aren't you?"

Sherlock sniffs, "I wasn't aware that I was on a time limit."

"Mr. Hooper would like to speak with you, and they don't have all night. Hurry up, son. And no sniffing the pillows or anything, you'll get… distracted."

Sherlock very nearly hurls a book at his father, who laughs smugly as disappears from the open doorway. Of course he has a very good idea of what Sherlock is thinking and feeling and wanting, as he's gone through the very same thing. Which is perfectly natural and expected, but thinking about his parents in the aspect of an Alpha desiring his Omega is enough to banish his erection.

He arrives downstairs fully clothed, with thick socks Auntie Etta knitted him for Christmas last year (he doesn't plan on admitting how much he loves getting her socks, and actively grumbles about it, though she always gets a hug, kiss, and thank you when out of sight of the rest of the family) on his still icy feeling feet. Molly and Pat are sitting together on the loveseat at the farthest end of the lounge, going over the homework he's brought her. His mother is serving tea, and Sherlock moves to join the adults, wanting to hear what Mr. Hooper has to say to him.

"Steve Hooper, nice to meet you, Sherlock; it's a blessing, Molly and you finding each other when you did." He stands and shakes Sherlock hand like they're equals, something Sherlock appreciates as many adults don't bother doing this with teenagers, even those whose IQ is triple their own. Once the greeting is over with, Sherlock takes a seat beside his father on the sofa.

"Kids, come here." He gestures to Molly and Pat who share a look of foreboding before setting aside schoolbooks and worksheets, choosing to stuff themselves in an arm chair. It doesn't take a genius to see that Pat is going so far as to physically brace his cousin for the conversation that's about to take place.

Mr. Hooper has a very open and expressive face; if he attempted to lie, he'd be perfectly abysmal; at this moment he's clearly torn apart by a vast array of emotions, too undiscipline to properly suppress them for later analysis. There's a weariness to him as he accepts a cup and saucer from Mrs. Holmes. The voice he uses is quiet and sad. "We need to talk, sweetheart."

Molly's answer is a nod, short but strong. There's a terrible sort of knowledge in her eyes, a resignation to accept whatever is about to come her way. Perhaps it's only Sherlock's fears influence his outlook, but it seems that if her uncle were to announce he was taking her back to her parents she would quietly pack her bag, thank his parents for their hospitality, and leave. Fortunately he thinks Pat Hooper would be an ally in fighting against any suggestion of this nature, and it's clear the sort of sway he holds on Molly; between the two of them, Sherlock thinks they could convince her to stay.

"Yesterday after the police left your parents… had a bit of row. We had to call the police back, and they arrested your mother. She was incredibly…" Mr. Hooper trails off, apparently unsure of how to describe what happened.

"Aunt Helen knocked Uncle Ned in the head with a meat tenderizer," Pat bluntly supplies. "He's in the hospital but he's going to be fine, so don't worry. By the time the police came back round that crazy bi… woman had set your bed on fire and then drove off. No, don't worry, seriously, Molls; Aunt May pulled Uncle Ned out of the house and into the garden and phoned the police, he was seriously wasn't hurt by the fire or anything."

Turned the color of sour milk, Molly's eyes have become round and glassy from both tears and horror. Sweat glistens on her face and neck, and her free hand has knotted in her borrowed dressing gown so tightly that her knuckles have become bloodless and white. "She could have killed him."

Her uncle steps in with firm reassurance. "But she didn't, love. Your dad is fine, I swear it. Cursing about hospital food as we speak, I'm sure."

"What happened to Mum?"

Father and son share a look, both appearing terribly uncomfortable with this part of the narrative.

"She came to the school," Pat admits, staring at his knees. "The police found her there."

"Why'd she go there?"

"I dunno; she was probably looking for you, that's what I figure."

"Yeah, Molls, that's a probably what –"

"Don't lie to me, Patty." With a ramrod straight spine and a narrow slash of a mouth, Molly narrows a harsh glare on her cousin. "Not you. You're the only one that never has, so don't you dare start now."

Flushing shamefully, he meets her gaze. "She was looking for me. Burst into geometry like some kind of horror movie monster, screaming about incest and sins and how I'd been perverted and damned by an – by an incubus. Father Caster slapped her with a ruler when she tried to drag me out of a chair, broke it across her head. Swear she looked him like she was going to rip his throat out with her teeth, I'd never seen anything like it before; I mean, she was crazier than that time she caught us trying to sneak you back in after going to see Rocky Horror. Cops came right after, guess Uncle Ned told him where she was planning to go, and it took both of them, Father Caster, and Sister Bertha to get her down. She kept everyone out of the hall, right, and came in and saw the police trying to hold Aunt Helen down and she was screaming and fighting and calling me demon spawn, and Father Caster was crying and praying because she'd headbutted him and he was bleeding, like, GOUTS of blood from his nose, it was super gross. So she shouted, 'Helen Louisa Flannigan!" and Aunt Helen called her a witch in a habit and so Sister said, 'God forgive us both for our sins,' and belted her so hard across the face that Aunt Helen's head, like, literally rebounded off the chalkboard and it knocked her out. The police were like, 'Uh, Sister, we really shouldn't use brute force.' Know what she said? She ruffled her habit, you know how she does, and she was like, 'Young man, even Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior will make exceptions in His divine law when it comes to the subject of Helen Hooper, poor mad soul that she is.' Then you know what? She offered to take you in if no one else had, because she thought you shouldn't stay with any of us – because, you know, it's right there and Aunt Helen could find you real easy." Finally coming to an end, Pat exhales.

"God forgive me, Pat, I'm so sorry. I never should have left, I knew she'd take it out on everyone else if I wasn't there –"

"Sweetheart, we're all thankful that you weren't there. If she'd been able to get her hands on you…" Mr. Hooper shakes his head, horror glinting in his eyes. "I knew it was bad, but I swear to you Molly, I had no idea exactly how bad it'd become. Why didn't you tell anyone? "

Sherlock snorts derisively. "Is there some level of abuse that is deemed acceptable to society that I have yet to become aware of? I took Molly to see a doctor, you know, and do you know how many times her arms have been broken? Her fingers and ribs? They had to stitch up a wound on her scalp that's at least a week old and badly irritated from not having been properly treated. So all of these things being done to her is fine but when someone from outside your family learns about it, well then, then it's gone too far."

"Molly is naturally clumsy," Mr. Hooper answers rigidly, equal parts angry and ashamed. "I've seen her trip over nothing on a flat surface."

"Oh yes, I imagine it was quite easy to allay any worries or concerns by convincing yourself that the pattern of injuries as well as your sister-in-law's known mental instability was simply a strange coincidence."

"Sherlock," his mother breathes, quiet but firm. With a sneer he sinks into the sofa, arms folding across his chest as he grits his teeth to keep silent. His father puts a hand on his knee, both restraining and understanding.

"What happened to Mum?" Molly asks, and Sherlock has the urge to toss his hands in the air and shout, 'Why does that even bloody matter? Who fucking cares where that bitch has gone, unless it's a shallow and unmarked grave?' Truly, he doesn't understand her continuing attachment to the woman.

"The police took her into a hospital; apparently after she woke up she was furious and more out of control than even before."

"She spat on Greg and bit him," says Pat. "Guess he came awfully close to strangling her. He has to get rabies shots now."

"Patrick, please."

"What? It's the truth."

"The hospital decided to keep Helen to evaluate her mental state." The words sound odd coming from Mr. Hooper, and it's obvious he's regurgitating what he's been told. "There's talk of finding somewhere that she can get help."

"An institution, you mean." It isn't a question; Molly seems quite sure of this.

"Yes, sweetheart, an institution… but you never know, with help it's entirely possible things could get a lot better. That maybe, I dunno, she'd go back to her old self."

Molly doesn't respond, to this or any other banality offered during the remainder of the visit, which goes on only a brief while longer. Dinner is subdued and quiet, and when she goes up to bed Sherlock follows, glad his parents offer up no objections – though his father does tap his watch meaningfully. Once they're behind the closed door Molly draws in a shaking breath, sitting down.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Can… would you care to… I need…" Gesturing helplessly, she looks up with tear glazed eyes. Her voice cracks as she admits, "I really need a hug."

He nearly trips with how speedily he rushes over, glad she's told him what to do. This is so far out of his element that he honestly has no clue what the proper procedure is, but proper or not, whatever Molly wants or needs is what he'll provide to the best of his abilities. Taking a seat beside her, Sherlock winds his arms around her, exhaling shakily as she leans heavily against his side. She wraps her arms around his chest and locks her hands together, hanging on to his skinny frame as though she'll destroyed by releasing him.

She doesn't cry, and while Sherlock thinks it would be an appropriate release of emotion, he's selfishly glad. He doesn't like her tears, finding that they set him on edge. Instead she simply breathes, turning her nose into his shirt as though taking in his scent. They sit like this for a long time, though Sherlock isn't sure precisely how long – not that he cares. When she tugs he follows, clambering onto his bed and curling behind her. Drawing his arms around her, Molly scoots close before threading their fingers together and resting their hands against her stomach.

Sherlock's not quite sure how long it is before he falls asleep, and he's only vaguely aware of his parents coming into the room a while later. His mother's voice is gentle as she urges, "Leave them alone, Will. She needs him after all that." More solid is the weight of his father's hand smoothing messy curls away from Sherlock's forehead, the press of his mouth against Sherlock's temple. He thinks the same treatment is given to Molly, but maybe he only dreams opening his eyes long enough to see it. A blanket is settled over them both, warm and soft, and a fire is stoked to high heat in the hearth before the door is once again shut, leaving him to fully topple back into dreams.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with Mr. Hooper changes the landscape of the future once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait between chapters. Please don't expect quick updates for quite some time, it won't happen; my mother had several strokes which ended in a massive stroke. I'm in Indiana where she lives, helping her and packing her up to bring her home. It's horrifically difficult in that she's not... she's not Mom anymore. I mean she is, but... it's just hard. I'm keeping a brave face for her but I'm not doing very well in handling how it's changed her, physically and mentally. On the upside, she's so gentle and kind and the mom I had when I was a little girl, so there's that. But it hurts to see her hurting. Things are going to be rough for a long while; updates will be sporadic. Updating WILL continue, however, as I have no plans to abandon my baby. Please just be patient. And bless MizJoely, who is beautiful and kind and the best beta a girl could ever ask for. Any mistakes are due to my own brainfarts, and is no reflection on her.
> 
> Thank you to everyone that leaves such wonderful reviews, who messages me and follows me on tumblr and fangirls over Religion! You don't know how much I need that all right now, and how much it cheers me up. Thank you so, so much!!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

On Saturday the Holmes family (excluding Mycroft) and Molly go to see Ned Hooper in the hospital. Erasmus chooses to wait, pulling a paperback out of his bag to read while leaning against the wall and pretending not to keep an ear open in case he needs to step in. Sherlock wishes he could stay with his brother but his parents made it clear this morning while Molly was showering that while it was his choice, she would undoubtedly appreciate his presence by her side. “Bondmates draw strength from each other. She’s a brave girl all on her own, no doubt about it, but you’ll give her a sense of security to really own that bravery. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” had been his answer, and it was true – when considered from a purely psychological stand point. Emotions, as always, remains dangerous territory for Sherlock, and his comprehension of emotional motivations still needs to be cultivated. Despite Mycroft’s insisting otherwise, he’s beginning to believe that the only way to _truly_ comprehend matters of the heart is to explore his own emotions, to embrace, at least to a point, the up until now lesser side of his being that is ruled by emotion. Because now, as Molly clings to one of his hands with both of hers and presses close to his side, it seems to him that she draws strength from each point where their bodies meet.

 

Strange as it may sound, it feels good to think that he can be of help to her through nothing more than his physical presence.

 

With his parents several paces behind them, waiting for Molly to make a move, Sherlock and Molly stand outside the drawn curtain surrounding Mr. Hooper’s bed. Her eyes are closed and she’s taking deep breathes through her nose and exhaling from her mouth in quiet, drawn out puffs. Sherlock allows her this time to prepare herself without badgering her to go on, which even he can see is quite unusual from his normal behavior. It does lend some credence to his new hypothesis, though it will take much more study and application to gather a conclusive result. Half a minute later she meets Sherlock’s gaze with a nod, though her fingers somehow manage to tighten their hold on him as he frees a hand to open the curtain.

 

With pillows tucked behind his back and neck, Mr. Hooper seems to be sleeping while sitting up. His head is quite thoroughly bandaged, but from the bruising and swelling marring his face, Sherlock can see that the damage his wife inflicted was more serious than his brother led them to believe. A tiny sob works out of Molly’s throat, and she finally begins to shed the tears she had refused to release last night. Following her to Mr. Hooper’s bedside after she releases him has nothing to do with concern for the patient and everything to do with the desire to remain Molly’s support. His father would do the same thing for his mother, and to Sherlock there is no better example of a romantic partner.

 

Stationed just behind her as she leans over the bed rail to take her father’s hands, Sherlock gives her distance without moving too far away. It’s a delicate balance to master, and he hopes he’s not utterly botching it.

 

“Oh, Daddy…” Tearfully she touches trembling fingertips to his massively swollen, black and blue jaw. Call Sherlock callous, but he’s unmoved for the man’s plight; after the trauma and humiliations his daughter has suffered, in Sherlock’s eyes this man deserves even worse.

 

At the soft touch, Mr. Hooper’s eyes flicker open. It takes him a moment to focus on Molly’s face, not unexpected given the morphine in his IV drip. “Mouse?” he groggily questions, reaching up to feel her own face. Molly winces back when his medicated hand is too heavy on the flesh covering her fractured cheekbone, and despite knowing it wasn’t intentional Sherlock bristles. He’s quick to take a half-step forward, placing a hand on her hip to draw her away if the need presents itself.

 

“Mouse, your face…” Tears well in Mr. Hooper’s eyes as he speaks. “You look about as good as I do.”

 

She’s quick to brush her own injuries and pain off. Sherlock actually bites his tongue to keep from correcting her misconception on the importance of her well-being over anyone else’s, especially either of her parents. “It’s nothing, Daddy, I promise. But you… what happened?”

 

“Your mum and I had another fight, but this one got out of hand… I know you’ve told me about it, but I’d never actually seen her really lose control like that, I didn’t understand how bad it was…” Swallowing hard, he gestures to his head. “She clocked me good with a meat tenderizer. That’s what I get for getting in a fight with a kitchen, eh? Lots of weapons in there.”

 

Shock dulls Sherlock’s reflexes, as his brain literally _refuses_ to process the exact meaning of Mr. Hooper’s words for a several seconds. When the computation is complete, however, such rage that he has never, ever experienced before washes over him. Red spots flicker in front of his vision and a bitterly frigid pulse of heat pulses through him, creating a short burst of static in his ears. “She told you?” he hears himself saying. Molly’s looking at him in horror, Mr. Hooper is just now recognizing his presence, his parents are coming closer; but all Sherlock can _really_ focus on is the miserable garbage lying in the bed. “Molly _told you_ how bad it was and you did _nothing_ to protect her?”

 

Molly’s hands move to his stomach and chest, as though to hold Sherlock back from her father. “He really didn’t know how bad it was, I swear he didn’t.”

 

“You _told_ him how bad it was, Molly. And he didn’t believe you – he did _nothing._ Those can’t be the first bruises she gave you and there’s no way you could have hidden them from someone you were living with, especially if they were on your face, as many undoubtedly were. The only conclusion is that your father knew ‘how bad’ it really was, and _chose_ to ignore it, to do _nothing._ He chose to allow his wife to continue brutalizing his daughter because it was easier than stepping up and being and an actual parent, isn’t that right, Mr. Hooper?”

 

“You’d be the Alpha, then.” There’s a weary sort of defeat to the man, and the way he tips his head to the side – wholly unlike a Alpha and much like waving a red flag at a bull – makes Sherlock’s teeth ache for flesh, for the taste of blood and the screams of pain. He doesn’t even pretend to deny the accusation.

 

Blinded to everything but his mounting anger, Sherlock is surprised when his father places a hand on his shoulder. The grip is much too tight be anything other than an acknowledgement of precisely how close his son is to losing control. “Step out,” Mr. Holmes orders quietly. “I’ll stay with Molly.”

 

“But –”

 

“Now, Sherlock.”

 

His gaze moves to Molly, who boasts a fearful expression and tear tracks on her cheeks. Shame washes over Sherlock quite without warning, taming his fury; she’s gone through more than enough, she doesn’t need her new Alpha having a testosterone fit at her father… no matter how much he deserves it. So he nods tightly, somehow wounded by Molly’s sigh of relief. Pushing up on her toes, she kisses his cheek, a damp, fleeting contact that only adds fuel to the fire of Sherlock’s already too complex emotional and physical reactions.

 

When he passes his mother on his way out of the room he receives a soft smile of approval, as though he’s done something right. Mum is always pleased by the most outlandish and meaningless things, however, and there’s never any telling what will make her happy or send her into a fury. Outside the room Erasmus is leaning against the nurse’s station chatting a well-endowed nurse up. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock takes up the task of holding the wall up.

 

According to his watch, which he checks compulsively and far too often, it’s nearly five minutes before his brother returns. He’s got a phone number written on a Post-It note and a smug turn of the mouth. “Get kicked out, little brother?” Erasmus questions.

 

Sherlock scowls and it’s all the answer that’s needed.

 

“I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did. At your age, if I were in your shoes and it was just some girl I liked I’d be bloody furious… if it were my Omega, hell, I’d have a hard time keeping myself from ripping his throat out.” He has _no_ idea how true his words are. “Well, want to know what I found out?”

 

“And here I thought you were showing genuine interest in her.”

 

“Oh trust me, there’s a _lot_ of interest for lovely Nurse Grace over there, but I also like to mix business with my pleasure. It’s like killing two birds with one stone.” Erasmus leers in such a way that Sherlock feels as though _he_ needs to shower, and it’s not even aimed at him. Thankfully the expression is short lived. “Mr. Hooper is going to having surgery tomorrow to reduce the intracranial swelling and remove some skull fragments that could pose some threat; I got Grace to promise to call Mum and Dad to let Molly know the status once it’s over. He’s got permanent hearing loss in his left ear and may have to undergo physical therapy, but that’s not for certain yet.”

 

For a while they’re silent. Voices murmur from inside Mr. Hooper’s room, his parents’ coming quite frequently, and he wonders what’s being said. After a while, without looking at Erasmus, he says in a voice that’s surprisingly neutral, “He said, ‘I know you’ve told me about it, but I’d never actually seen her really lose control.’ Molly went to him for help and he did nothing.”

 

Sherlock witnesses his brother’s hands balling into fists and the wrath flare in his eyes, sees how the blood vessels in his neck push out while he takes deep and even breaths. “I assumed as much,” Erasmus admits once control is regained. “But I’d hoped to be wrong.”

 

“If he died in surgery my only regret would be that it would cause her even more pain.” Does this make him amoral? It must, at least to some degree, and Sherlock doesn’t care. It’s true he was briefly troubled by the psychological profile he compiled of himself, finding that he was in the spectrum of a high functioning sociopath, but there isn’t even a hint of discomfort in him now. High functioning or highly selective, which is a term more suited to his case, thinks Sherlock; however it’s applied to him, the fact remains that there are a bare handful of people that have gained profound emotional attachment from him, and Molly Hooper is perhaps the most important of them all despite the newness of her presence in his life. Any pain she suffers, no matter how slight, is intolerable, and – here is something like fear – there’s little doubt that if he was pushed far enough, Sherlock would end a life to see her safe and protected.

 

Brooding on the ramifications of his psychology when applied to being an Alpha with a Bondmate occupies Sherlock for the duration of Molly’s visit with her father, which ends shortly after the half hour mark. Emerging from the room before his parents, Molly eyes are red and swollen and there are tear tracks on her cheeks. Her breathing suggests a prolonged bout of crying she’s struggling to recover from. Grinding his teeth together, he _forces_ himself into an outward show of calm, simply offering her his hand without speaking. There’s a gratefulness to her as she accepts it which he doesn’t wholly understand – it may help her, but it keeps him from doing something she would regret, which is his main concern at the moment – and for a moment she closes her eyes and rests her forehead on his upper arm, allowing Sherlock to guide her down the corridor for several steps.

 

They all crowd onto the lift, quiet as they’re assaulted by dreadful instrumental music pouring through tinny speakers. It’s not until they’re back in his father’s sedan, Molly small enough to comfortably fit between Sherlock and Erasmus in the backseat (unknowingly making Erasmus feel as though he’s about thirteen again and should be kicking the back of his dad’s seat to see how long it’ll take to make him shout and threaten to drop him off on the side of the road), that she speaks. Her words come after a trembling exhale. “Dad signed me away,” she quietly announces, more tears trembling on her eyelashes before tumbling free. “Your parents will be my legal guardians as soon as the paperwork is approved.”

 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Erasmus all determinedly pretend they aren’t in a confined space and can’t hear her speaking. His mum turns the radio on, flicking stations until she finds one that suits her for the moment – Jimi Hendrix wailing _Foxy Lady_ – while his father sings along in a truly disturbing manner and Erasmus mutters about public decency and parental displays of affection that double as foreplay and shouldn’t be performed in public. It fools no one, least of all Sherlock, but the effort is noted and appreciated it.

 

For once, he’s surprised by a revelation. He’d seen his mother tucking a folder with documents into her large purse, but he hadn’t imagined they were guardianship papers; the signs were there, he’s sure, but he was too busy being Molly-dazed to notice them. Blast.

 

“I… don’t know what you want me to say,” Sherlock chooses to admit after several moments of deliberation. An icy rain begins to pelt the windows and roof, and from the driver’s seat his father is grumbling, “Fucking brilliant,” at the weather and abusing the horn simply as a show of roadway dominance.

 

Molly chews at the corners of her mouth, brow furrowing. “Whatever you want or think; I don’t want you to… to not be yourself with me.”

 

It does wonders for Sherlock’s own peace of mind to have her make this proclamation, more so than he’s willing to admit. In truth it fills him with glowing, buttery pleasure, because this whole time he’s been _terrified_ that if he’s Sherlock Holmes and not a more normal boy then she’s going flee for the hills. What’s worse is knowing _no one_ would blame her if she did, because who would want to be tied to a freak like him for the rest of her life? Of course this is a double edged sword, because while Sherlock wants the freedom to be himself, he also very much wants to _not_ be, as he’s rather too blunt and heedless of the emotional injuries his keen observations can inflict. If he would murder those that caused that her pain without thought or guilt, how can he be the one to attack her with knife-like words and carry on as selfishly as he always has? These two things cannot exist together, or should not, or will not be allowed to, which is perhaps more accurate than he’s willing to admit: _I will not be the worst kind of hypocrite._

 

So he licks his lips and stares first at his knees, knobbly through the heavy fabric of his slacks; then looks out the window, foggy and wet, with indistinct shapes of buildings and cars and people running from the frigid rain; not finding an answer there he moves his gaze to their hands, still connected, fingers interlocked in a way that is more than spaces filled or a passing touch, and finds he’s choking on too many ideas and thoughts and maybe-words. Finally he sighs and looks to Molly, realizing, _I should have looked to her in the first place,_ because by now her red rimmed eyes are worried and her mouth is becoming raw from the pressure of her teeth.

 

Finally he speaks. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I’m glad you’re going to be safe. We can be your family now.” It’s his truth, though perhaps not the entirety of it, which is much too… _much,_ too _raw,_ to be spoken with three extra pairs of ears pretending they aren’t straining to catch every word passing between he and Molly.

 

Her smile is somehow quiet, in a way that Sherlock can’t pin down, but is perhaps the most brilliant he’s ever seen from her. They don’t speak of it, not now when everything is so fragile; and while there’s no doubt that she’s still sad, there’s also no doubt that she’s happy. If nothing else, it’s a very good start towards a new beginning.

 

Mum is flipping through radio stations again, and Erasmus complains until she goes back to Meatloaf singing about the one thing he won’t do – for love, that is –and quite before anyone is wholly prepared for it Erasmus has baited Molly into having a duet and there is an embarrassing amount of air guitar being played.

 

“You kids!” Mrs. Holmes laughs, fishing her ever present camera from her purse. The flash catches Molly laughing, the bruised side of her face turned away from the camera, not entirely aware of the adoring way Sherlock watches her.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless my amazing beta, MizJoely, who makes silk purses from sows' ears. And thank you to everyone that's been waiting, and leaving such lovely reviews and kind thoughts about my mom. I appreciate you all so much!
> 
> Updated to remove errors, all thanks MizJoely, patron saint of the good ship Sherlolly. ;)

The two weeks since Molly left her home, in what Erasmus stubbornly refers to her ‘grand rescue’ (though she has a difficult time hearing that term used, probably because it’s far more true than she’s comfortable admitting), have been fourteen days of absolute upheaval. It all still feels very unreal, and there’s a moment each time she wakes in the mornings that she believes she’s going to open her eyes and find herself back in her room, that Sherlock and his family were nothing more than a bittersweet dream. There’s still an awkwardness to living with them that she can’t escape, though she’s beginning to see the openings and edges where she can slot herself into the flow of their lives; sometimes she thinks, it’s like they’ve always been waiting for me, while others she can’t help but despair, I’m nothing like them, this will never work out. 

To her, Sherlock is a safe island in the middle of a storm tossed sea. They aren’t together as often as she’d like, as often as she suspects he’d like, as he’s still a university student and his Omega appearing in his life doesn’t take away the daily responsibilities of his education. He takes the train home at least twice during the week, and these are the nights Molly likes best, especially when Erasmus is present. Dinners are loud, filled with interesting conversation, laughter, and brotherly bickering. Mycroft’s appearances are less often, for which she’s grateful for, as he tends to look at her as though she’s something filthy and subpar; there’s a certain tension to his mouth when he speaks to her, a glint in his eyes that clearly states an Omega from a lower-class, Catholic family is by no means up to the standards he’s set for his brother.

The parts of her that have been conditioned by her mother’s abuses, they make her want shrivel up and hide away from Mycroft and his not-quite-sneers. The other bits, the ones that are becoming brave and strong simply by the virtue of Sherlock’s smiles and lingering touches, are less inclined to hide. Who does he think he is, casting judgement on her? He may come from a wealthy family with above average intelligence, but in the end he put his trousers on one leg at a time, just like everyone else, and if he doesn’t like her, then he can shove off and mind his own business. What’s between she and Sherlock is just that, between the two of them. And Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have made it exceptionally clear that they want her with them, in their home, and as a part of their family.

They give her a room, and somehow this is the single most meaningful gift she’s ever been given in her entire life. It was a guest room until just a week ago, furnished in the muted sort of way that made it clear it belonged to no one in particular, with moderate colors and little life besides a tall, flowering plant near one of the two windows. It was Mr. Holmes that brought her to it, pushed the door open and gestured for her to step inside. “You like it?” he’d asked, hands pushed into his trouser pockets.

“It’s lovely,” she’d answered, and he’d beamed.

“Well, so long as you’ve got no objections, it’s yours, now. You can decorate however you’d like, and we’ve sent for your things – one of your aunts will be bringing it over soon. Maura’s planning on buying new bedclothes and such, so you can put your stamp on it.” She’d managed not to cry, but her vision was all fuzzy from the tears in her eyes, and her cheeks hurt from the massive grin on her face.

Lying in her bed, in the first place that Molly can remember as being hers without conditions or locks to keep her inside, she luxuriates in the safety. It’s addictive, feeling safe; if she had to go back to her parents’ today, she doesn’t think she’d be able to survive the constant stress and fear. Which makes her so guilty she could vomit – what kind of daughter is she? – but also begins to shape her ideas for the future. She knows her life is going to be with Sherlock from here on out, knows they’re bound together in a way that she thinks is more destiny than simple biology (though she imagines he would scoff at the idea of such a thing), and she’s glad of that. Because one day, when they’re older and more ready, they’re going to have a house of their own, and it’s going to be just like this: calm, happy, and, above all else, safe. Especially for the children they may have (Molly can’t help but blush and squirm, both ashamed for wanting something so far away and so silly, and so overwhelmed with a dizzying sort of desire that it makes her hands curl into fists, as though she’s trying to cling onto the fantasy of the children she may bear). 

There’s a knock on the old, solid wood of the door. It opens with a creak of ancient hinges, and Mrs. Holmes steps inside. The fire has died down during the night, but from the warm light of the simmering embers Molly can see the pillow creases on the older woman’s face. “Molly,” she calls in a soft, cajoling tone. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

She sits up with a yawn. The quilt falls off her shoulders and puddles onto her lap, and she shivers at the cold air. “I’m awake,” Molly admits, giving Mrs. Holmes a crooked smile. 

“You’re quite the early riser, aren’t you?” Paddling across the dim room, as the sky outside is still dark and there’s little to no moon to speak of, she takes a seat on the edge of Molly’s bed. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to going out, today?”

“Oh, yeah!” Nodding enthusiastically, Molly has to force herself from bouncing. “I’m dying to get out! I mean, it’s not that I don’t like spending the days with you and Mr. Holmes, but – but I’m used to going to school, and doing stuff…” Lamely trailing off, she blushes, looking down. 

Mrs. Holmes’ laugh is kind. “I understand completely. I thought we’d give Sherlock a ride into the city since we’re heading in ourselves, and he’s got an early lecture, so we need to be out of here by seven at the latest.” Her mouth twitches, and there’s a bright sort of knowing her eyes. “He’s a beast in the mornings when he actually lets himself sleep, but I suspect you’ll have an easier time getting him up and moving than I would. Do you mind?”

Molly’s stomach twists into delightful knots. “Oh, um, yeah, sure; I can manage.” She’s got the feeling her attempts at nonchalance in no way fool Mrs. Holmes, but it’s thankfully left unmentioned. 

After putting her feet in a pair of warm slippers, ones from home and brought in the two small boxes of possessions delivered by her Aunt Lily, Molly heads to the toilet. In a household of their size, what with Sherlock and Erasmus constantly staying over, she’s discovering it’s rather a privilege to get to brush her teeth and have hot water without someone shouting through the door to hurry up. She uses the toilet, brushes her teeth and gargles and washes her hands, even tries to straighten her messy hair before giving it up as a bad job, and then scampers to Sherlock’s door. First she tightens the belt of her dressing gown, shifting from foot-to-foot nervously, debating on knocking. He probably wouldn’t hear it – by now she knows that when he gets into a good, deep sleep bombs could go off and they’d be lucky if he so much as rolled over. Nothing for it, then; she’s going to have let herself in.

Despite having been sent in by Mrs. Holmes herself, Molly feels like she’s doing something naughty. Probably because she’s hoping Sherlock won’t be a complete bear and that maybe before the morning is over he’ll kiss her. There’ve had spare few enough of those in the past week, as it seems Erasmus has been intent on playing chaperone. Just last night he’d strolled past Sherlock’s open door, where they were reading (pretending not to stare at each other and doing a terrible job of it), and reminded them, “Keep those hand where I can see them, kids!” 

And it was just as Sherlock had sneaked a hand over and laid it on her thigh, making Molly’s blood pound in her ears and her fingers shake. It’d taken a supreme force of will not to hurl a book at Erasmus’ head. 

With that memory in mind, she opens the door just enough to slip inside, and shuts it behind her. If she were braver, and more willing to break the rules of the house, she’d lock the door. She knows that would go over about as well as setting the sofa on fire, though, and stays her hand from it. She takes a moment to let her eyes adjust the darkness; the fire burnt down so long ago that there’s not even a warm glow to guide her, just the light of an early winter morning before sunrise. 

Carefully she makes her way across the room, sliding her sock-clad feet against the floor to avoid bumping into something or tripping. Once she’s at his bedside she takes a deep breath for courage. With her heart pounding, she leans over him, feeling very daring as she takes in the outline of his lean body under the quilt. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gives him a soft shake. “Sherlock,” she calls, lowly, not wanting to startle him. “Sherlock, it’s time to wake up. Sherlock.”

He groans, and it makes her blush right to the tips of her ears. Pushing himself up on a forearm, he cocks his head back. Molly can see his eyes glinting in the gray darkness. His nostrils flare as he takes a big whiff of air in, and it has the effect of making her knees knock together because it’s like he’s scenting her. “Molly?” he asks. His voice is rough and low from sleep, and she’s got the mad urge to tackle him to the bed and snog him stupid. His hand comes up, half-blindly searching, landing against her stomach and the knotted belt of her robe. Unable to bring herself to move, Molly can only take a breath in and shudder because the weight of his hand is against her belly, and for some reason it’s very – very good – “What’re you doing?”

She replies in a choked voice, “Its morning. Your – your mum sent me to wake you.” 

Nodding, he scoots further towards the head of the bed before sitting up. When the quilt falls down she can see that he’s not wearing a shirt, can see the skin on his sharp shoulders gleaming, and she has to dart her gaze up to the ceiling and take several deep breaths. Which he can undoubtedly feel through that hand, the fingers of which he hooks into the knot, almost – but not quite – pulling it loose. “What time is it?” 

“Oh, um, a little after five.” 

There’s a flash of teeth when Sherlock smiles, and then he’s tugging the fabric of the belt until the knot unwinds and the ends flop down. “Take the robe off,” he orders, but there’s no need because Molly was already shrugging it off her shoulders before he’d begun speaking. It puddles on the floor behind her feet. 

Still, she feels the need to half-heartedly point out, “Sherlock, your parents are waiting for us…” Even though she’s got a knee on the edge of the mattress, even though he’s pulling the covers back so she can climb in beside him. The bed is made for one occupant, but Sherlock squirms back until he’s against the wall, and Molly slides in between the sheets. Having left her slippers on the floor, her bare feet rub against his the soft fabric covering his legs as she settles in, heart lurching with a painful sort of excitement as she lowers her head to the indent he left on the pillow. He leans over her, hand hovering in the air above her stomach before it finally drops, fingers spreading out so he’s palming the soft flesh covered by thin cotton. 

“Is this alright?” A fierce sort of adoration seizes Molly when Sherlock asks this question. She doesn’t have experience with boys, at least not in this area, but she’s spent a lifetime watching her older cousins explore the path of relationships and sex, both in and outside of the dynamics of an Alpha and Omega and even Beta. From what she’s seen, boys of Sherlock’s age are often prone to expectations, to demands; how many times has she heard female cousins grumbling about boyfriends that act as though they’re owed some sort of rights to their girlfriends’ bodies? 

“It’s great,” she answers honestly, unable to keep what she’s sure is an utterly besotted smile off her face.

Carefully he runs a hand over the side of her face, where the once livid bruises are fading into a dull, ugly mottling of yellows and greens. “Does it hurt?” he asks, and Molly doesn’t need light to know that he’s wearing a dark frown; it’s the same expression he always wears when they discuss her healing injuries. She’s quick to flutter a hand between them, accidently smacking his chin in the process.

“It’s fine, really, I hardly – oh, no, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you, I’m so sorry!” Sherlock’s laugh is a quiet, throaty sound that makes something low in her stomach tie into a hard knot. Before she can realize his intentions, his fingers have pushed into her hair and he’s lowered his head, brushing his mouth along hers in a light sweep that makes her toes curl. He exhales into the space between her parted lips, making Molly’s head spin. She wraps her arms around his back and neck, feeling each point where bare skin meets bare skin and wishing her nightshirt would simply dissolve away so she could feel more, like his stomach on hers and her breasts against his chest. The thought of it makes her moan and tighten her arms, the thought so erotic that she’s got sparks flaring behind her closed eyes.

She kisses Sherlock as though she’s starving for him, and as though each wet press of tongue and scrape of teeth is the only thing keeping her alive. It certainly feels like it, right now. There’s a little part of her that’s panicking, that is urging her to stop or at least slow down, to pull back and ask if she’s doing anything wrong, if he actually likes this – but he’s settling his narrow body over hers, between legs she hadn’t consciously parted, and she’s convinced that whatever she’s doing, it’s right. Especially when he groans and the sound practically reverberates into her, and when he runs a lightly shivering hand up her side and, after a bare moment of hesitation, palms her breast. Molly has to break the desperate string of kisses, throat aching and head pushing back into the pillow as she gasps for air she suddenly can’t seem to get enough of. It feels as though she’s grabbed onto a live wire. 

“Judging by your – your accelerated pulse and respiration, you like this,” Sherlock breathlessly states, and Molly squirms helplessly when he squeezes the little mound of warm flesh. Her head bobs quickly up and down in the affirmative. “My research indicates that many women enjoy different types of stimulation – especially in this region – and I think it would be beneficial to – to judge several different stimuli and gage their effects.” He has to stop and swallow, and she’s entranced by the bob of his Adam’s apple. “With that in mind, I propose a test, the parameters of which involve partial nudity and stimulation from my mouth –”

“Shut up and take my shirt off,” she gasps, already trying to tug the fabric up. Her elbows flail and she finds removing her nightshirt difficult, mostly because Sherlock isn’t moving off her and she can’t lean up far enough, but she’s got it pulled up to her shoulders when his head drops. The first touch of his tongue makes Molly moan; too loudly, she’s afraid. She immediately clamps a hand over her mouth. The fingers of the other hand find Sherlock’s hair and dig into the thick curls, hanging on as he makes a deep, hungry noise against her skin and sucks her nipple into his mouth. She’s never felt anything remotely like it and suddenly understands why the nuns insist on total abstention, because this feels so sinfully good that she knows there’s no stopping now that she’s had a taste. 

There’s a heavy throb settling between her thighs, harder and more insistent than the banging of her heart, even. Molly squirms, but it does nothing to relieve this ache. Without really meaning to, she shifts her hips up, seeking – something, she’s not sure what – and cries out against her palm when she presses against what is undoubtedly Sherlock’s erection. For a moment he’s very still, face turned into the valley between her chest and one hand clamped hard on her hip. Each breath he takes is gasping and shallow. 

Slowly, he licks the underside of one breast, and Molly swears she’s going to scream – which is ridiculous, because none of her romance novels ever said that was a place that was supposed to make her feel good – and then pushes against her. She chokes on air, reaching out to dig her blunt nails against his sides. “Do that again,” she demands, and promptly bites her lip in an attempt to keep quiet when Sherlock forcefully obeys. Hooking her feet behind his knees, Molly follows the movement the next time he repeats it, and it’s even better this time. 

Sherlock grunts and it sounds like her name, and Molly can’t keep herself from writhing. She’s overwhelmed by how good this all is, and how brilliant he feels, his stomach pressing against hers when he straightens his back and rises over her. They’re moving together in hard, artless movements, rutting like animals in heat. And maybe that’s not too far off because when he takes one breast in hand and pinches her nipple, a little too hard but she’s not going to complain, Molly growls. Legitimately, honestly growls. Later she’s going to be horridly embarrassed about that, but now, well, she’s got other things to worry about. 

“Mine,” she pants, kissing his shoulder, the line of his neck where sweat is beginning to glisten in the dim light. “My Alpha.”

He laughs and it’s a choked, breathless sound of giddy madness. His nose bumps into her own, runs over her cheek before moving further down, and then his mouth is at her ear. “I want to give you my knot,” Sherlock pants, a raw admission that makes the bottom drop out of Molly’s stomach. Under his weight she twists, legs lifting so her thighs are at his sharp hips and she’s curling under him, practically offering herself up for the taking. She’s clawing at his sides, his chest, some instinct she hadn’t even realized she possessed driving her to score his flesh until he gives a furious thrust and pins her with his body, grappling until he’s managed to get her wrists in one broad palm. She’s awed at how big his hands are, how he can pin her arms over head and grind against her until she’s tipping her chin back and showing him her throat in blind submission. It makes stars pop and blink in front of her eyes, and no matter how much air she sucks in she can’t get enough, and now there’s a hard shivering in her limbs. It feels like there’s something, something she doesn’t have a name for and it’s chasing her – or maybe she’s chasing it – 

As quickly as they’d been caught, her wrists are free. Sherlock is holding himself on his knees, mouth twisted in a scowl as he tangles his fingers in the fabric of her pajama trousers, tugging and pulling. “We can’t, Sherlock, we can’t,” she’s choking out, even though her hands have joined his. They’re getting in each other’s way, his bony wrist knocking her fingers away, her palm catching his thumb and pinning it to her stomach. She’s terrified he’s going to – that they’re going to – that right now, in his bed with his parents and brother downstairs going about their morning – they’re going to have sex. It’s too quick and soon and not the right time at all, but while logic is howling like a panicked animal, the rest of Molly is squirming, fighting to get the fabric down far enough that maybe, maybe – 

Pajama pants and panties bunch together at the top of her thighs, and the chilly air winds through the now bare thatch of hair. It’s shocking because it makes her realize that she’s – between her legs, she’s wet, and she tries to push up on her elbows and scoot away. The biological response of the female body isn’t new to Molly, at least not in terms of text books and the science that goes into sex, but surely this can’t be right. She’s done something wrong, because yes, the vagina is meant to lubricate but this is too much, way too much, and she can’t let Sherlock find out, she’ll die if he’s disgusted – 

“You think I’m going to knot you now?” There’s a ragged edge to Sherlock’s voice when he speaks, and his words come in a desperate rush. He bats her hands away, gaze focused between her legs, and there’s just enough light that he can see too much for Molly’s liking. “I want to. I want to.” He exhales in a rough tremor. His palm is warm and heavy against her pubic bone as he presses against that mound, and Molly’s frozen, a high noise of desperation in the back of her throat as she does her best to keep absolutely still. “God, I want you. It’d be so easy, so good, but I won’t. Not yet. Because when we do – and we will – we’re going to need more than this. More than a quick fumble, trying to be quiet so my parents don’t hear us… I just want to feel, Molly. May I? Will you let me feel you?” 

So dizzy that it feels like the bed is rocking and swaying under her, Molly’s arms give out and she topples to her back again. Her eyes are tightly closed, because she’s hoping not seeing will help distance her from the mind numbing everything going on, but it only makes it worse. She can feel everything more acutely; her hard, tight nipples and how they’re aching, how heavy and swollen her breasts feel; the pulse between her legs, forcing her hips to lift up against Sherlock’s hand, seeking more pressure, more something; the sound of his breathing, fast and urgent, like he’s been running for miles, and how it makes her stomach swoop out from under her again.

Jerkily she nods, not quite meaning to. “Yes,” she hears herself murmur, and she hasn’t got time to take it back or think it through, because Sherlock’s making this low, masculine sound of pleasure and his hand is – moving – 

Molly’s eyes shoot open after he’s pushed his hand between her thighs, after his fingers are curled to hold the most private part of her body so intimately that her nose and eyes burn with a sudden rush of tears. Gaping up at him, feeling very much as though he’s stripping her skin away and displaying every painfully sensitive nerve ending to the world, she’s able to see the way his mouth drops open and how his narrow body shudders. His middle finger pushes past slick outer lips, sinks into wet flesh just above the aching opening of her body. 

He groans, “You’re so wet,” his other hand reaching out, curling over one bare breast and clinging as though he needs to be anchored. It is obvious how affected he is, how he likes the excessive moisture, and Molly’s previous worries are entirely forgotten. She arches her back and pushes against him, wordlessly crying out. Carefully he begins to stroke with light touches, learning the new landscape presented to him. It’s almost by accident that he ghosts a touch over a place that makes her knees jerk and her throat close, and if Molly’s eyes hadn’t snapped closed she would see the smirk stretched across Sherlock’s face. “There,” he murmurs, as though he’s talking to himself, before he carefully parts the folds of her center and sets his fingertip against the bundle of nerves.

She knows it’s her clitoris, can see the anatomy diagram flashing behind her eyes, but the knowledge is secondary and is overwhelmed by the flood of sensation. It’s so good it’s almost painful, and she’s writhing, legs spasming as she alternately tries to press her thighs shut and strains to open wider. Her range of movement is hindered by the sleep pants and knickers shoved down on her thighs, but it doesn’t keep Molly’s muscles from jerking and twanging. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears, louder than Sherlock’s heavy, excited breathing. It’s like he’s playing her, like she’s the strings of his violin, and that pressure from before is surging back, harder and more intense.

“Oh my God, stop, something’s happening,” she gasps out, taking the sheets under in two great fistfuls even as her shoulders arch off the mattress. She doesn’t know if she really wants him to stop but thinks maybe he should, because this can’t be normal, can it? This – this feeling of hurtling through space, flying into something so massive her conscious mind can’t even truly comprehend it.

Sherlock pauses and Molly pries her eyes open, staring at the ceiling and gasping for air. She can’t stop shivering, can’t stop her hips from pressing up, seeking to renew the pressure. “Haven’t you ever done this before?” he asks, and all she can do is shake her head back and forth, because words are suddenly beyond her. “Never? You’ve never touched yourself?”

“No,” she admits, and thinks she’s going to swallow her tongue when his fingers dip down to the entrance of her body, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. Something that’s half a groan and half a laugh is pulled out of Sherlock as he does this, and it’s only when he brings his attention back to her clit that Molly realizes he was slicking his fingers in her moisture. It makes sense, the need for easy friction, but that’s as far as her mind can go before it’s shutting down under the hot wash of pleasure. 

“It’s okay,” he breathes, leaning over her. The kiss he gives her is sloppy and quick, but Molly wants more, whines when he pulls away. “I want to make you feel good, Molly. My Molly… my Omega… it’s okay, it’s alright, I’m here. You’re safe. There, you can feel it, can’t you? Your muscles are tensing, I can feel it, here, how you’re tightening up inside…” His thumb presses against her entrance, circling, and yes, Molly can feel it. Can feel something, pulling and stretching her, like she’s a rubber band being stretched back, farther and farther – and if he doesn’t stop, oh, if he doesn’t stop she’s going snap – 

“Sher – aghhh –” The last remains of logic force Molly’s arm up, over her open mouth, where she bites down on her own flesh to stifle a wail. The tension can’t go any further and, like a train that’s run out of rails but has a full head of steam, she catapults through darkness into some great, unknown abyss. Stars are blazing past her in hot flashes and it’s like – it’s like she’s been turned inside out, but it’s so good, it’s the best thing ever – and she can feel her whole body shaking and shuddering, can hear Sherlock gasping, “God, you’re beautiful, my Molly.” 

The initial, blinding rush fades and she finds herself limp on her back, twitching and jerking and moaning against the inside of her wrist. She opens her eyes to the sight of Sherlock, in the blushing light of sunrise, tugging his pajama trousers down. His isn’t the first penis she’s seen, not by a long shot, because she’s a girl from a huge family and Pat remains untouched by shame of his body and has a habit of walking around starkers in his room even when she’s over. Exhausted and hazy as she is, she’s feels her interest perking because Sherlock’s penis is nothing like the ones she’s seen before, floppy and vaguely worm like. It’s angrily red and stiff looking, and very wide, so wide that her eyes grow in size as she contemplates ever attempting to take him inside her body.

Curious, she watches as Sherlock takes himself in hand strokes – realizing that he’s using the same hand he’d only just used to give her such monumental pleasure with, which makes her stomach fall out and her toes curl – head dropping forward as he does. He’s watching her with hazy eyes, mouth damp and open, tongue touching the corner before he whispers, “I could watch you come a dozen times.” A grimace of something like pain crosses his face and Molly can’t keep from reaching up with trembling hands, cupping his cheeks and pushing her sluggish, weak body up so she can kiss his mouth. At the first touch of her tongue on his bottom lip he jerks and exhales hard, shuddering above her, and she can feel something hot and wet splashing across her lower stomach. Something fierce and hot flares through her as she realizes that he’s orgasming, that he’s feeling the same feeling she felt, like he’d ripped her soul out and held in his hands, and it was simply because he’d watched her. 

He ends up lying beside her, an arm wrapped over her stomach and the other pillowing her head. “I’m sorry,” he mutters hoarsely, snagging excess sheet and wiping her belly clean. He’s blushing. “I should have asked, first, before I…” Trailing off, he seems at a loss for words.

Molly shakes her head. “I don’t mind. Really. I – I liked it, actually. I – I know that’s probably weird, but –”

“Who cares?” He kisses her artlessly, joyously. “I liked it, too.” Together they squirm, tugging their clothing back into place – though Sherlock seems decidedly put out to have her breasts out of view, which does wonders for ego as her cousins always made fun of her little chest – before he tugs the quilt up and covers them both. His eyelids are drooping. 

“We need to get up.” She may be reminding him, but she’s also rolling onto her side and curling against his body, burrowing her face into the crook of his shoulder and inhaling deeply of his sweaty, musky scent. 

“Mm,” he gives vague agreement, “in a minute.” 

Erasmus wakes them twenty minutes later by yanking the quilt off their bodies and leering. “You little pervs,” he praises, waggling his eyebrows. “Better hop in the shower and air this room out before Mum catches a whiff, there’s enough pheromones in here to light up a neon sign.”

It’ll be days before Molly can look him in the eye again.


End file.
